I'm a mess. Why am I such a mess?
I'm not really a mess. I have a job I like. I'm in an academic program that I'm not paying for. Opportunities abound. I have good health insurance, and a car that runs, and a place to live. My relationships with family and friends are good.
So why is my spiritual life like a third-world war-zone?
Maybe it's not that bad. More like an inner-city playground.
Invariably, I ask myself this question, and I hear back, be still. Listen.
And then I start thinking about how sometimes "listening" to God is nothing more than listening to the way that our surrounding culture characterizes God, and how we can't really know, and how I'm afraid of falling into something false.
Within seconds, I'm ready to pull out my hair. I don't know how to be with God, without being with all the junk that everyone says about Him. People are wrong about God's will all the time. Sometimes, the error is innocuous. Sometimes, it messes up their lives, and the lives of people around them. What then? How to trust "being with God"?
I want to give up faith. But I can't. I've had this very palpable sense, while down here, that I'm in this now. I continually think, "Enough already," and then, "Suck it up. Keep going." I can't stop because I already feel truth. For better or worse. Hopefully better, at some point.
I've been taking a "church vacation" this week (read: vacation from church). Earlier this week, I was praying, and as I was praying, I was thinking about how I don't understand prayer, and am I making up God in my head?, and what do I expect to happen? And finally, I just said, God, I don't get it. But I'm going to stop caring about how it works, and how You work, and what You look like, and about what prayer should be. Instead, I'm going to talk, honestly, about what's up, and whatever comes of it, comes.
That night, I was praying some more (for sucking at it so badly, and being so confused by it, I really like prayer, though I prefer to think of it more as chatting), and I felt the need to flip to Corinthians. I read, you might guess, the wedding verses. But I read them differently. I saw things I had never seen before (and who hasn't read those verses 17 million times?), and understood the words in a way so personal, the only viable response was worship.
I had asked to understand Christ's love. And in that moment, and every night since then, somehow, I've been given understanding. I mean, you know, inasmuch as I can understand. Salvation is still a mystery. I'm not writing a bestseller, or heading for the talk-show circuit. But I've understood for myself. I've felt His love in a way that I haven't felt it for a very long time. And feeling it has made me want to give it.
On that count, I fail spectacularly. But for right now--how amazing. To be cared for by God is... (uh-oh, stealing from Chris Tomlin in 3...2...1..) indescribable (I am getting so hip to the Christian scene). I feel like I'm in rehab. God is one hell of a counselor.
So what about church? I need to pry open my heart, somehow. Or maybe I don't. Christ may have that covered. I think the teaching is good. I think the people are sincere. My heart hurts not to be there. I don't have to have it all figured out.
All vacations have to end.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
mysteries, and knowledge, and mountains.
A funny thing happened last night.
I'm on church vacation, so I passed up prayer meeting to go out with the experimental psych crowd in downtown Springfield. Great food, great drinks, great conversation. People parted ways, and I ended up meandering downtown with a classmate. And then started the funny.
We went to Whisler's, a hole-in-the-wall hamburger joint on McDaniel, and then sat out in the town square for awhile. Beautiful night. Warm (-er than Chicago). Big, bright moon. He and I are talking. He's again (we had had this conversation before) trying to convince me that he's a psychologically healthy being, despite his constant use of sarcasm to deflect genuine conversation. Then, he goes here:
"Actually, I think that's why I like you so much. You have this cold, bitchy side that is just as narcissistic and sarcastic as I am."
That was meant to be a compliment. Really. He assumed that I appreciate his constant sarcasm, and consider us to be similar creatures, and thus would be happy to be compared in such a way. But, as I don't live in Bizarre-o World, it came to me as a slam. And a wake-up call.
I'd been sitting there searching desperately for an exit, but he's been getting his cues from me the whole time.
I don't think I'm quite as sarcastic and mean-spirited as he seems to have projected onto me, but I do think the hard edge is there. The sarcasm, and elitism, and seeming coldness. That's a problem.
I told him so. I apologized, sincerely. Explained that though I sometimes give the impression that my ideas are superior to others, and that it's okay to be hyper-critical, I don't want to be that way. So, if he thinks that he's found a friend in my more negative attributes, I need him to know that those are the attributes I'm trying to change. Where there's mean-spirited sarcasm, I want there to be open kindness. Where there's elitism--understanding.
Him: "But everyone needs to vent after being nice to morons the whole day."
Me: "Yeeeah, see...My goal is to not see them as morons, but people. And to not front kindness, but to actually feel it."
It was a night.
And it led me directly back to my issues with the church. My heart breaks to know how I've fallen short of showing real love to people. Even as I don't know how to show real love. There has to be a space for dialogue and disagreement. But first, before the mysteries, and knowledge, and mountains, there has to be Love.
I'm on church vacation, so I passed up prayer meeting to go out with the experimental psych crowd in downtown Springfield. Great food, great drinks, great conversation. People parted ways, and I ended up meandering downtown with a classmate. And then started the funny.
We went to Whisler's, a hole-in-the-wall hamburger joint on McDaniel, and then sat out in the town square for awhile. Beautiful night. Warm (-er than Chicago). Big, bright moon. He and I are talking. He's again (we had had this conversation before) trying to convince me that he's a psychologically healthy being, despite his constant use of sarcasm to deflect genuine conversation. Then, he goes here:
"Actually, I think that's why I like you so much. You have this cold, bitchy side that is just as narcissistic and sarcastic as I am."
That was meant to be a compliment. Really. He assumed that I appreciate his constant sarcasm, and consider us to be similar creatures, and thus would be happy to be compared in such a way. But, as I don't live in Bizarre-o World, it came to me as a slam. And a wake-up call.
I'd been sitting there searching desperately for an exit, but he's been getting his cues from me the whole time.
I don't think I'm quite as sarcastic and mean-spirited as he seems to have projected onto me, but I do think the hard edge is there. The sarcasm, and elitism, and seeming coldness. That's a problem.
I told him so. I apologized, sincerely. Explained that though I sometimes give the impression that my ideas are superior to others, and that it's okay to be hyper-critical, I don't want to be that way. So, if he thinks that he's found a friend in my more negative attributes, I need him to know that those are the attributes I'm trying to change. Where there's mean-spirited sarcasm, I want there to be open kindness. Where there's elitism--understanding.
Him: "But everyone needs to vent after being nice to morons the whole day."
Me: "Yeeeah, see...My goal is to not see them as morons, but people. And to not front kindness, but to actually feel it."
It was a night.
And it led me directly back to my issues with the church. My heart breaks to know how I've fallen short of showing real love to people. Even as I don't know how to show real love. There has to be a space for dialogue and disagreement. But first, before the mysteries, and knowledge, and mountains, there has to be Love.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
where it's at.
I don't like that James River has such a shiny veneer. I don't like that the image is so trendy. It feels false. As though it's a church trying to fit in with the cool kids, like Hillsong. It's not just James River, though. My concern is more general. The megachurches are just the frontrunners in the movement, the most obvious targets. I wonder why, with so many Christians, and so much money involved in paying for church buildings, and church ministries, and church staff, why there is starvation in this world. Why is there homelessness? Why do some kids go without education?
Abolishing poverty is not an unreachable goal. But it will require that we actually start caring about poverty.
I was reading this article yesterday about how the Dems plan to re-group after the Massachusetts win. The tactical strategizing was intense, and I love me some Plouffe, but I couldn't help but think of the idiocy involved. Politicians on both sides seem to spend more time figuring out how to win elections, than how to solve real problems. Like, poverty.
Not unlike churches. Church has indeed become a "third point" for many (an intentional goal), but how valuable a goal is that? Whenever I hear a plea for people to volunteer at the church, I think... what's the point of a church that invests so much in sustaining itself? Shouldn't the church require less effort for its own good, and more for the world's?
I know, I know. We're reaching the lost. So I hear. But it seems that if we were really serious about reaching the lost, we'd go out to where they are. We'd feed them, we'd take them in, we'd volunteer outside of our own church, we'd divest ourselves of a trendy image that might embarrass or denigrate them.
Jesus tells us that we can't serve two masters. So why do we try?
Having said all of that. I like James River. And it's not the building. It's not the fancy childrens ministries--alas, I have no children. It's the sincerity of the people. I don't agree with a lot of them. I do in fact think that some of them have bought something they oughtn't (I will most likely have the same reservations in two years as I do now--I hope I don't shut up about them), but I am coming to love them. I don't agree with some of the preaching that smacks of prosperity doctrine, but I think it's mostly sincere. There is so much talent there. The musical talent alone is overwhelming.
So where does that leave me? A member of an imperfect body? A person who, just like all of them, needs the love of Christ, and God's good wisdom, to make it through to the end. I suppose.
Abolishing poverty is not an unreachable goal. But it will require that we actually start caring about poverty.
I was reading this article yesterday about how the Dems plan to re-group after the Massachusetts win. The tactical strategizing was intense, and I love me some Plouffe, but I couldn't help but think of the idiocy involved. Politicians on both sides seem to spend more time figuring out how to win elections, than how to solve real problems. Like, poverty.
Not unlike churches. Church has indeed become a "third point" for many (an intentional goal), but how valuable a goal is that? Whenever I hear a plea for people to volunteer at the church, I think... what's the point of a church that invests so much in sustaining itself? Shouldn't the church require less effort for its own good, and more for the world's?
I know, I know. We're reaching the lost. So I hear. But it seems that if we were really serious about reaching the lost, we'd go out to where they are. We'd feed them, we'd take them in, we'd volunteer outside of our own church, we'd divest ourselves of a trendy image that might embarrass or denigrate them.
Jesus tells us that we can't serve two masters. So why do we try?
Having said all of that. I like James River. And it's not the building. It's not the fancy childrens ministries--alas, I have no children. It's the sincerity of the people. I don't agree with a lot of them. I do in fact think that some of them have bought something they oughtn't (I will most likely have the same reservations in two years as I do now--I hope I don't shut up about them), but I am coming to love them. I don't agree with some of the preaching that smacks of prosperity doctrine, but I think it's mostly sincere. There is so much talent there. The musical talent alone is overwhelming.
So where does that leave me? A member of an imperfect body? A person who, just like all of them, needs the love of Christ, and God's good wisdom, to make it through to the end. I suppose.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
theological methadone.
It's 10am on Sunday morning. Do you know where I am?
I'll tell you where I'm not. I'm not in the shower, getting ready to go to church. That's right. Look Ma, no hands. I'm doing it. I am skipping church. I'd be crying if this Coffee Ethic mocha weren't so frigging good.
It is really freaking good, though. The Conan of mochas--the best of it's kind. That was lame.
This Sunday morning finds me at The Coffee Ethic, jamming to some Ben Folds, and pretending to read for my classes, sipping that sweet, sweet mocha. I can't lie. I thought for sure that I'd wake up, and change my mind. I thought I'd be on my way to church by now. I have no idea how I'm going to make it past tonight's service. One hour at a time. I've been clean for about 14 hours now, after I bolted from my Old Testament study last night. There's actually a church on McDaniel I've been wanting to try. The walk back to my car will be a trial.
This is so outrageously ridiculous, I am laughing out loud at the coffee shop.
1. No one is addicted to church.
2. No one thinks that church addiction is a bad thing.
3. Wait a second!
There's a big honking precedent for this. People have been addicted to "religious" movements before (don't drink the kool-aid!). And everyone agrees that these addictions were bad. Yes.
In the same vein, as I think that most modern churches are leading people away from Jesus' true intentions, I can believe myself to have been addicted to false doctrine, and that would be bad.
What's the theological equivalent to methadone? Can I use the Unitarian Universalists to wean myself from the pentecostals? Maybe I should go slower. Pentecostal, nondenominational, methodist, then UUs? This might all be a slippery slope to Kabbalah.
Ha! At least I'm in good spirits so far. Skipping prayer meeting on Wednesday is going to kill my heart.
Question: If it's this hard to quit church, if you really want to be there, why are you doing this?
Because I don't really want to be there. I mean, I do. But I want to be there for the atmosphere. And some of the teaching. The minute someone says something dumb about Satan, I'm steaming.
Right, but, it's dumb to expect everyone around you to agree with you.
I don't expect everyone to agree. I expect everyone to have reasonable support for their views. It's not necessarily what's being said, it's how it's being said.
Ok, so you're quitting the church because you think your thought processes, and experience of truth is superior to theirs?
No, no, that's not it. It's just... Yes. Yes, I do. Which seems pretty fine by me, because they think the exact same thing of me. Let's be clear, there are smart and thoughtful people there. But the overwhelming culture is one of anti-intellectual, emotion-based faith. Everything about the experience is designed to stun your senses, and push you into a decision you might not have adequate reason to make. Not unlike Vegas, with all of it's lights and sounds. That's wrong. And it seems to result in uneducated believers. People who are looking for something to feel better about. Not people who are willing to make real sacrifices for the Truth of Jesus' morality. Nor people who are willing to do the digging to harbor informed knowledge of Christian scripture and ethics.
15 hours, and counting.
I'll tell you where I'm not. I'm not in the shower, getting ready to go to church. That's right. Look Ma, no hands. I'm doing it. I am skipping church. I'd be crying if this Coffee Ethic mocha weren't so frigging good.
It is really freaking good, though. The Conan of mochas--the best of it's kind. That was lame.
This Sunday morning finds me at The Coffee Ethic, jamming to some Ben Folds, and pretending to read for my classes, sipping that sweet, sweet mocha. I can't lie. I thought for sure that I'd wake up, and change my mind. I thought I'd be on my way to church by now. I have no idea how I'm going to make it past tonight's service. One hour at a time. I've been clean for about 14 hours now, after I bolted from my Old Testament study last night. There's actually a church on McDaniel I've been wanting to try. The walk back to my car will be a trial.
This is so outrageously ridiculous, I am laughing out loud at the coffee shop.
1. No one is addicted to church.
2. No one thinks that church addiction is a bad thing.
3. Wait a second!
There's a big honking precedent for this. People have been addicted to "religious" movements before (don't drink the kool-aid!). And everyone agrees that these addictions were bad. Yes.
In the same vein, as I think that most modern churches are leading people away from Jesus' true intentions, I can believe myself to have been addicted to false doctrine, and that would be bad.
What's the theological equivalent to methadone? Can I use the Unitarian Universalists to wean myself from the pentecostals? Maybe I should go slower. Pentecostal, nondenominational, methodist, then UUs? This might all be a slippery slope to Kabbalah.
Ha! At least I'm in good spirits so far. Skipping prayer meeting on Wednesday is going to kill my heart.
Question: If it's this hard to quit church, if you really want to be there, why are you doing this?
Because I don't really want to be there. I mean, I do. But I want to be there for the atmosphere. And some of the teaching. The minute someone says something dumb about Satan, I'm steaming.
Right, but, it's dumb to expect everyone around you to agree with you.
I don't expect everyone to agree. I expect everyone to have reasonable support for their views. It's not necessarily what's being said, it's how it's being said.
Ok, so you're quitting the church because you think your thought processes, and experience of truth is superior to theirs?
No, no, that's not it. It's just... Yes. Yes, I do. Which seems pretty fine by me, because they think the exact same thing of me. Let's be clear, there are smart and thoughtful people there. But the overwhelming culture is one of anti-intellectual, emotion-based faith. Everything about the experience is designed to stun your senses, and push you into a decision you might not have adequate reason to make. Not unlike Vegas, with all of it's lights and sounds. That's wrong. And it seems to result in uneducated believers. People who are looking for something to feel better about. Not people who are willing to make real sacrifices for the Truth of Jesus' morality. Nor people who are willing to do the digging to harbor informed knowledge of Christian scripture and ethics.
15 hours, and counting.
Friday, January 22, 2010
white-flaggin'.
I quit. I give up. Do you hear me, God? Do you read this blog? I quit.
Maybe you’re not meant to be known. Christ was clearly meant to be known. He came in time and place. But time passes, and fact turns to myth. You can’t love myth.
Maybe the foolishness is not so much in believing in the fantastical—who are we to say what is impossible?—but in believing that we can know. In carving out our corner of truth, and setting up a soapbox in it, and staking a claim on certainty.
In psychology, we name what we don’t understand, and then the name itself becomes a sort of understanding. So when you go to your doctor, he can give you one of hundreds of diagnoses that prescribe little hope of effective treatment, but at least you know what you are. Right?
Do we do the same with You? We name You, sometimes forgetting that name means little. We scour Your Word, naming things as we go—laws, and sins, and love—attempting to make the world more simple, more certain. Attempting to secure our salvation in a sinner’s prayer.
But there’s nothing simple or certain about Your world. It’s a messy place. That is part of its wild and terrible beauty.
I give up. I don’t want to name things any longer. Well, except for one thing. Love. I’ll keep love.
Whatever kind of God You are, I think You understand.
Maybe you’re not meant to be known. Christ was clearly meant to be known. He came in time and place. But time passes, and fact turns to myth. You can’t love myth.
Maybe the foolishness is not so much in believing in the fantastical—who are we to say what is impossible?—but in believing that we can know. In carving out our corner of truth, and setting up a soapbox in it, and staking a claim on certainty.
In psychology, we name what we don’t understand, and then the name itself becomes a sort of understanding. So when you go to your doctor, he can give you one of hundreds of diagnoses that prescribe little hope of effective treatment, but at least you know what you are. Right?
Do we do the same with You? We name You, sometimes forgetting that name means little. We scour Your Word, naming things as we go—laws, and sins, and love—attempting to make the world more simple, more certain. Attempting to secure our salvation in a sinner’s prayer.
But there’s nothing simple or certain about Your world. It’s a messy place. That is part of its wild and terrible beauty.
I give up. I don’t want to name things any longer. Well, except for one thing. Love. I’ll keep love.
Whatever kind of God You are, I think You understand.
escape from freedom.
I gotta get out of the church. I'm going to.
Maybe if I start psyching myself up now, I'll be able to make the break come Sunday morning. Or, I could hang out with the Unitarian Universalists. Twenty percent of those peeps don't even believe in God--there are bound to be some liberals there. Oh yeah, place must be crawling with 'em.
Right on. Wish me luck.
Maybe if I start psyching myself up now, I'll be able to make the break come Sunday morning. Or, I could hang out with the Unitarian Universalists. Twenty percent of those peeps don't even believe in God--there are bound to be some liberals there. Oh yeah, place must be crawling with 'em.
Right on. Wish me luck.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
and Jesus was His name-o.
Jesus. Coffee. Statistics.
In that order.
I had something of a tumultuous night last night, spiritually-speaking. A hard prayer meeting, followed by a good discussion, and a lot of keyed-up sleeplessness. By the morning, I had decided to take a hiatus from church, and spent the ride into work negotiating the settlement (Sunday mornings and Life Group are out, but you can still have Saturday bible study, and your Tuesday afternoon study sessions in the Atrium, etc.).
And then, enter the true, if blasphemous, trinity. Sitting in a stats class with a mug of steaming, fragrant joy, it all came down to...
Jesus. I'm angry. Not angry with God. But with His Church, a lot of His people, myself, and some things I'm not even sure of. I hadn't realized until this morning that I am. As my professor warbled on about leptokurtic distributions, I was thinking about last night and suddenly felt the full force of this anger. I thought, "I need to love," but then, "I can't, I can't. Love is humility. And if I give up being right, I won't have anything. It'll hurt too much to be both alone, and nothing." Mary, Joseph, and the Camel. That is explosive.
And complicated. There are dual processes going on here.
When I think about what makes me angry about the church, I am struck by the ways in which I think that I'm right to their wrong. And I might be right (I might also be wrong)--that's the first process. It's one of debate, discussion, open critique, reading, and thinking. The stakes can be high. If the megachurch movement is in fact a deviation from Christ's intentions, then the money spent there is a serious problem. The reality is that the Christian lobby in this country has the funds and manpower to all but eradicate homelessness. But we don't. If I'm right about the disparity between Christ's intention, and our direction, the stakes are not small, and there's much to be angry about.
But turn the corner with me. The absolute value of "being right" is not the only issue. Regardless of whether my arguments are sound, there's that little tug that comes from the thought of laying them down. An emotional nagging. I bristle at what I'm being told from the pulpit, and so I coach myself, "Ok, Ash, you disagree, but you need to love. Put the anger to the side right now." In that act of self-denial, though, is a twinge of pain, of hurt. What is it? I'm not entirely sure. I think it's that I identify my worth so closely with my ideas, that to deny my self even momentarily, in order to fully love this man, despite what I believe are false words, feels like a decimation of my very being. To love someone "other" so fully feels impossible to do, feels like an extension outside of my own being that I couldn't possibly sustain.
If I'm denying myself to love him, who will love and care for me?
Bingo.
In that order.
I had something of a tumultuous night last night, spiritually-speaking. A hard prayer meeting, followed by a good discussion, and a lot of keyed-up sleeplessness. By the morning, I had decided to take a hiatus from church, and spent the ride into work negotiating the settlement (Sunday mornings and Life Group are out, but you can still have Saturday bible study, and your Tuesday afternoon study sessions in the Atrium, etc.).
And then, enter the true, if blasphemous, trinity. Sitting in a stats class with a mug of steaming, fragrant joy, it all came down to...
Jesus. I'm angry. Not angry with God. But with His Church, a lot of His people, myself, and some things I'm not even sure of. I hadn't realized until this morning that I am. As my professor warbled on about leptokurtic distributions, I was thinking about last night and suddenly felt the full force of this anger. I thought, "I need to love," but then, "I can't, I can't. Love is humility. And if I give up being right, I won't have anything. It'll hurt too much to be both alone, and nothing." Mary, Joseph, and the Camel. That is explosive.
And complicated. There are dual processes going on here.
When I think about what makes me angry about the church, I am struck by the ways in which I think that I'm right to their wrong. And I might be right (I might also be wrong)--that's the first process. It's one of debate, discussion, open critique, reading, and thinking. The stakes can be high. If the megachurch movement is in fact a deviation from Christ's intentions, then the money spent there is a serious problem. The reality is that the Christian lobby in this country has the funds and manpower to all but eradicate homelessness. But we don't. If I'm right about the disparity between Christ's intention, and our direction, the stakes are not small, and there's much to be angry about.
But turn the corner with me. The absolute value of "being right" is not the only issue. Regardless of whether my arguments are sound, there's that little tug that comes from the thought of laying them down. An emotional nagging. I bristle at what I'm being told from the pulpit, and so I coach myself, "Ok, Ash, you disagree, but you need to love. Put the anger to the side right now." In that act of self-denial, though, is a twinge of pain, of hurt. What is it? I'm not entirely sure. I think it's that I identify my worth so closely with my ideas, that to deny my self even momentarily, in order to fully love this man, despite what I believe are false words, feels like a decimation of my very being. To love someone "other" so fully feels impossible to do, feels like an extension outside of my own being that I couldn't possibly sustain.
If I'm denying myself to love him, who will love and care for me?
Bingo.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
trivia night at Finnegan's?
It's Wednesday, around two in the afternoon. In another couple of hours, a friend of mine will text me, "Trivia night at Finnegan's?" And I'll text back, "Prayer meeting at JRA?" We'll both laugh, and keep our plans. It's a thing we have.
I don't appreciate this enough: my friends are cool. They don't have to be cool. They could judge me in the way that they have felt judged. But they don't.
I say that I went to a dripping-pink women's conference at a southern, conservative megachurch. They wince, but affirm my telling of the "good parts." I decline Saturday night plans to instead go to bible study. They grumble, but agree that the premise of the study (Old Testament rabbinic perspectives) is cool. I struggle aloud with God, and they sometimes struggle with me.
These friends don't share my beliefs. I am sure that I am foolish to them at times. And neither of us are perfect. I get antsy with them, and think or speak arrogantly towards their ideas. They get fed up with me, and do the same.
But, by and large, they accept who I am becoming, without a lot of waffling over how our friendship will be affected. We are friends. We share love. We've shared life. And we will, indefinitely. That is so awesome.
Sometimes I put a very fine point on living in two worlds. It can be hard. Lonely, yeah. Then also, a tremendous blessing.
I don't appreciate this enough: my friends are cool. They don't have to be cool. They could judge me in the way that they have felt judged. But they don't.
I say that I went to a dripping-pink women's conference at a southern, conservative megachurch. They wince, but affirm my telling of the "good parts." I decline Saturday night plans to instead go to bible study. They grumble, but agree that the premise of the study (Old Testament rabbinic perspectives) is cool. I struggle aloud with God, and they sometimes struggle with me.
These friends don't share my beliefs. I am sure that I am foolish to them at times. And neither of us are perfect. I get antsy with them, and think or speak arrogantly towards their ideas. They get fed up with me, and do the same.
But, by and large, they accept who I am becoming, without a lot of waffling over how our friendship will be affected. We are friends. We share love. We've shared life. And we will, indefinitely. That is so awesome.
Sometimes I put a very fine point on living in two worlds. It can be hard. Lonely, yeah. Then also, a tremendous blessing.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
the time has come.
Her name was Tina. Is Tina, really. I'm sure I'd have heard if she had died. Nevertheless, I haven't seen her for three years, and her name was Tina then, too.
She was 26, which then seemed to me so far off. She had three children, each by a different father. I remember that her cell phone was always buzzing--texts and calls from various men she... courted. Ah, to heck with propriety. Men she had sex with. One-night stands, sometimes more, if she thought she could get money or gifts from them. Men she was constantly "sexting," even from work.
At one point, she was seeing someone outside of work (the psychiatric facility where we both served in the counseling department), she was having a long-term affair with a married man who worked with us whose wife also worked there, and she was having casual sex with a (married) consultant who came through every few weeks.
Her mother had been abusive. Her father had been largely absent. She had been sexually abused, and then some. And she was a mess.
We became friends. She trusted me because I knew that she was having an affair with both the coworker and the consultant. She let me into her life. She didn't hide her sexting, and came to me for advice. She had anger problems. Once, she punched a dent into the cabinet of our office. I baby-sat her kids when she needed it. The house was one of the filthiest I've ever been in. The youngest, a 5-year-old boy, put a Pixar movie into the VHS, laying aside the porn video that came out of the player.
When I think about Christ's love, I often think about Tina.
The nurses aids would drink on the clock, late at night. The counselors had to be there until 11. We'd get invites to the "party."
I was back reading in our office when Tina came through the door, giggling and trashed. She sat down, and we started talking about life. About sex, and men, and booze, and kids, and God. And as we talked, she started crying. She said she knew she was messing it all up, and knew she wanted God, but she just couldn't. She couldn't get there. Her Mom had forced her into church as a kid. Then abused her. When Tina started making bad choices, the church dropped her. Judged her. Hurt her. She was a screw up, and no well-dressed, do-gooder, suburban-comfortable Christians would accept a mother with three babies, and three baby-daddies, an anger problem, drug addiction issues, and too many men to count.
She didn't want nobody's charity. And if Christ is what she saw in the church, she didn't want Him either. She wanted respect.
I didn't blame her. I told her as much. I told her that I don't know what she saw in the church, but the Christ that I felt was a radical Christ. A Christ who saw her tears, and knew them. He's a Christ who sees her sins, and loves her still. A man who broke down the walls of sin, and prejudice. Who had the guts to turn over tables, and with them, whole economic systems, entire philosophical traditions. To stare into the worst kind of darkness without fear. But with love.
How incredible. I understood then, in one way. I understand now, in another. I wonder when this Christ she and I talked about will again spark a revolution worthy of His name.
When will Christians throw open our doors to the homeless? Invite the hungry to our tables? Roll up our sleeves, and take off our trended-up version of dress clothes, and get real with people who have real problems? When will I?
I believe in a radically powerful God. I'm short-changing Him. Are you?
She was 26, which then seemed to me so far off. She had three children, each by a different father. I remember that her cell phone was always buzzing--texts and calls from various men she... courted. Ah, to heck with propriety. Men she had sex with. One-night stands, sometimes more, if she thought she could get money or gifts from them. Men she was constantly "sexting," even from work.
At one point, she was seeing someone outside of work (the psychiatric facility where we both served in the counseling department), she was having a long-term affair with a married man who worked with us whose wife also worked there, and she was having casual sex with a (married) consultant who came through every few weeks.
Her mother had been abusive. Her father had been largely absent. She had been sexually abused, and then some. And she was a mess.
We became friends. She trusted me because I knew that she was having an affair with both the coworker and the consultant. She let me into her life. She didn't hide her sexting, and came to me for advice. She had anger problems. Once, she punched a dent into the cabinet of our office. I baby-sat her kids when she needed it. The house was one of the filthiest I've ever been in. The youngest, a 5-year-old boy, put a Pixar movie into the VHS, laying aside the porn video that came out of the player.
When I think about Christ's love, I often think about Tina.
The nurses aids would drink on the clock, late at night. The counselors had to be there until 11. We'd get invites to the "party."
I was back reading in our office when Tina came through the door, giggling and trashed. She sat down, and we started talking about life. About sex, and men, and booze, and kids, and God. And as we talked, she started crying. She said she knew she was messing it all up, and knew she wanted God, but she just couldn't. She couldn't get there. Her Mom had forced her into church as a kid. Then abused her. When Tina started making bad choices, the church dropped her. Judged her. Hurt her. She was a screw up, and no well-dressed, do-gooder, suburban-comfortable Christians would accept a mother with three babies, and three baby-daddies, an anger problem, drug addiction issues, and too many men to count.
She didn't want nobody's charity. And if Christ is what she saw in the church, she didn't want Him either. She wanted respect.
I didn't blame her. I told her as much. I told her that I don't know what she saw in the church, but the Christ that I felt was a radical Christ. A Christ who saw her tears, and knew them. He's a Christ who sees her sins, and loves her still. A man who broke down the walls of sin, and prejudice. Who had the guts to turn over tables, and with them, whole economic systems, entire philosophical traditions. To stare into the worst kind of darkness without fear. But with love.
How incredible. I understood then, in one way. I understand now, in another. I wonder when this Christ she and I talked about will again spark a revolution worthy of His name.
When will Christians throw open our doors to the homeless? Invite the hungry to our tables? Roll up our sleeves, and take off our trended-up version of dress clothes, and get real with people who have real problems? When will I?
I believe in a radically powerful God. I'm short-changing Him. Are you?
pay it forward, baby.
I sent my thumb drive through the spin cycle. Where the water is.
My Dad told me to put it in a jar of rice. I think he's cracked. I googled "What to do if you run your thumb drive through the washer," and the results were split. Half of the hits told me to chill it out, it'll work again. The other half involved smiley-faces, and snarky references to "cleaning out your files."
Regardless, this is a good lesson in data back-up before I hit the abyss of my thesis. And, oddly, a lesson in thankfulness.
I spoke with a friend this morning who has much larger problems than a soggy thumb drive. Her family life is falling apart. She doesn't like herself. She feels as though she has no place to turn. She's always keyed up, and stressed, and clinging to the one thing that she feels good about: work. Unfortunately, as she pointed out, you can divorce your hubby, but you can't give your kids back. There is, necessarily, more than work to be dealt with. Her life is real. Her problems are flat-out confrontational.
Though I want her to be happy, I can't fix her life. I wouldn't if I could. Self-discovery can tank you, but if you're lucky, you come out the other end to something far greater. So I can listen. And share what little bit of wisdom I've been blessed with in 25 years. And be calm, and content, and seeking, and as smart and kind as possible, and offer free baby-sitting, and casseroles, and hope that all of that will somehow help her.
In the meantime, I can learn from her. I wouldn't wish her troubles on her, but since they're there...
As I left her this morning, I felt so grateful. I love my studies. I love my job. I love the (sometimes) loony people I've surrounded myself with. Though I am often frustrated with the spiritual terrain of the world, I think my faith is where it needs to be. My parents and I get along--we talk almost every day--who would have ever thought it? I like the way my mind works, and the conversations I have with friends, and the way I find delight in the smallest details of life. I am intensely grateful for the way in which God seems to have settled Himself over me, guiding me through these first 25 years of my life.
I don't know that I deserve all of this. But I have it. How will I give it out?
My Dad told me to put it in a jar of rice. I think he's cracked. I googled "What to do if you run your thumb drive through the washer," and the results were split. Half of the hits told me to chill it out, it'll work again. The other half involved smiley-faces, and snarky references to "cleaning out your files."
Regardless, this is a good lesson in data back-up before I hit the abyss of my thesis. And, oddly, a lesson in thankfulness.
I spoke with a friend this morning who has much larger problems than a soggy thumb drive. Her family life is falling apart. She doesn't like herself. She feels as though she has no place to turn. She's always keyed up, and stressed, and clinging to the one thing that she feels good about: work. Unfortunately, as she pointed out, you can divorce your hubby, but you can't give your kids back. There is, necessarily, more than work to be dealt with. Her life is real. Her problems are flat-out confrontational.
Though I want her to be happy, I can't fix her life. I wouldn't if I could. Self-discovery can tank you, but if you're lucky, you come out the other end to something far greater. So I can listen. And share what little bit of wisdom I've been blessed with in 25 years. And be calm, and content, and seeking, and as smart and kind as possible, and offer free baby-sitting, and casseroles, and hope that all of that will somehow help her.
In the meantime, I can learn from her. I wouldn't wish her troubles on her, but since they're there...
As I left her this morning, I felt so grateful. I love my studies. I love my job. I love the (sometimes) loony people I've surrounded myself with. Though I am often frustrated with the spiritual terrain of the world, I think my faith is where it needs to be. My parents and I get along--we talk almost every day--who would have ever thought it? I like the way my mind works, and the conversations I have with friends, and the way I find delight in the smallest details of life. I am intensely grateful for the way in which God seems to have settled Himself over me, guiding me through these first 25 years of my life.
I don't know that I deserve all of this. But I have it. How will I give it out?
Monday, January 18, 2010
double-vision.
I went dancing at a gay bar on Saturday night. And I am excitedly awaiting the James River Women's Conference in October. I spend early Saturday evenings in bible study at the home of a guy who plays in JRA's worship team. And my closest friends are either agnostics, atheists, or Christians to the left of John Shelby Spong. I go to church two times per week, sometimes three. And I have a million reservations about the megachurch model.
I live in two worlds. And I won't leave either.
Let me tell you about late Saturday night.
I turned 25! And another friend turned something else, so I went out to celebrate with the crowd, whose preference was a gay club in downtown Springfield called Martha's Vineyard. I'm no stranger to gay bars--one of my closest friends from home is the most outrageously attractive gay guy you've never met, and he would take me out with him in Boystown, Chicago. But it has been a while since I've been in any crazy bar scene, and I felt the clash between the culture I've been learning (conservative evangelicalism), and the culture of my past (over-the-top bar scene).
I've been experiencing a lot of culture shock recently. Not a bad thing. On the contrary, I think it's good for me to be on my toes.
So we're at this bar, and I've got full-on double-vision. I see through the secular lens, and I've got the evang-i-vision going. Let me tell you, that's a lot to process with the strobe lights on. I'm thinking about something that this guy said to me at bible study earlier that night. He asked if I took him with me into the secular world of my friends, what it would be like.
I don't know. Television? But dirtier, because you can't drop an F-bomb on TV.
Anyway, I liked the question, and being in the bar reminded me of him. Made me think that if he were with me, he might pass out. I walk outside and there's a girl heatedly telling her friends why she doesn't have a girlfriend, "Being a bisexual, I love men, and I love women, but the women have f***ed more people than the men. I like women more, but I can't find one that's not a slut." She went on to name names, "Kendra, Jessie, Stacey..F***ing everybody." I walk into the bathroom, and there are people doing it in the largest stall. Back out on the dance floor, there's some girl way past drunk crying in the corner. In the background of the photos I took of my friends, you can see girls getting pretty dirty with one another on the dance floor.
Yeah, this might be a bit advanced for my bible study friend.
I know that many would frown on my presence, but I'm glad I was there. I didn't cross any lines--no drunkenness, or sexed-up dancing, or inappropriate innuendo. I do the crossword every week in MSU's student paper, and right next to the puzzle is an AGTS ad that says "Made for the edge, not the center." Well, friends, these are the edges I think we need to be on.
I was in a place where few conservative Christians go. And I was there not as a person who gets drunk at night, and prays in the morning. But as a person who is not afraid to walk the line between temptation and sin. As a person who is willing to have a drink, and dance, and accept criticism of the Christian church (all notably NOT sins). I want people to see that Christianity isn't easy--it'll take all of the heart and intellect and creativity that you've got--but it's not so out there as you think.
I fear that so many see the often-misleading culture of the conservative evangelicals (which comes off puritanical to the outside), and decide that Christ is so "other," so impossible, and undesirable. I think it's time that those of us are inside the fold start building some bridges. We have to be willing to hold our beliefs, but admit that faith is not certain. To live those beliefs, but not turn from the grittiness of the world.
When I joined my friends at the restaurant before we went dancing, they asked me if I was still going to James River. I said yes, to a table full of groaning and shouts of, "No, don't do it, don't do it." Not unlike how my James River friends might react internally to read about the rest of the evening.
The reality is that God doesn't stand on the outside of the bar. He's inside. When I hit the doors, He didn't decide to give me up to sin. His radical power dwells within me always, as it does for each of the people I saw that night. If God doesn't stand outside, let's you and me not either.
I live in two worlds. And I won't leave either.
Let me tell you about late Saturday night.
I turned 25! And another friend turned something else, so I went out to celebrate with the crowd, whose preference was a gay club in downtown Springfield called Martha's Vineyard. I'm no stranger to gay bars--one of my closest friends from home is the most outrageously attractive gay guy you've never met, and he would take me out with him in Boystown, Chicago. But it has been a while since I've been in any crazy bar scene, and I felt the clash between the culture I've been learning (conservative evangelicalism), and the culture of my past (over-the-top bar scene).
I've been experiencing a lot of culture shock recently. Not a bad thing. On the contrary, I think it's good for me to be on my toes.
So we're at this bar, and I've got full-on double-vision. I see through the secular lens, and I've got the evang-i-vision going. Let me tell you, that's a lot to process with the strobe lights on. I'm thinking about something that this guy said to me at bible study earlier that night. He asked if I took him with me into the secular world of my friends, what it would be like.
I don't know. Television? But dirtier, because you can't drop an F-bomb on TV.
Anyway, I liked the question, and being in the bar reminded me of him. Made me think that if he were with me, he might pass out. I walk outside and there's a girl heatedly telling her friends why she doesn't have a girlfriend, "Being a bisexual, I love men, and I love women, but the women have f***ed more people than the men. I like women more, but I can't find one that's not a slut." She went on to name names, "Kendra, Jessie, Stacey..F***ing everybody." I walk into the bathroom, and there are people doing it in the largest stall. Back out on the dance floor, there's some girl way past drunk crying in the corner. In the background of the photos I took of my friends, you can see girls getting pretty dirty with one another on the dance floor.
Yeah, this might be a bit advanced for my bible study friend.
I know that many would frown on my presence, but I'm glad I was there. I didn't cross any lines--no drunkenness, or sexed-up dancing, or inappropriate innuendo. I do the crossword every week in MSU's student paper, and right next to the puzzle is an AGTS ad that says "Made for the edge, not the center." Well, friends, these are the edges I think we need to be on.
I was in a place where few conservative Christians go. And I was there not as a person who gets drunk at night, and prays in the morning. But as a person who is not afraid to walk the line between temptation and sin. As a person who is willing to have a drink, and dance, and accept criticism of the Christian church (all notably NOT sins). I want people to see that Christianity isn't easy--it'll take all of the heart and intellect and creativity that you've got--but it's not so out there as you think.
I fear that so many see the often-misleading culture of the conservative evangelicals (which comes off puritanical to the outside), and decide that Christ is so "other," so impossible, and undesirable. I think it's time that those of us are inside the fold start building some bridges. We have to be willing to hold our beliefs, but admit that faith is not certain. To live those beliefs, but not turn from the grittiness of the world.
When I joined my friends at the restaurant before we went dancing, they asked me if I was still going to James River. I said yes, to a table full of groaning and shouts of, "No, don't do it, don't do it." Not unlike how my James River friends might react internally to read about the rest of the evening.
The reality is that God doesn't stand on the outside of the bar. He's inside. When I hit the doors, He didn't decide to give me up to sin. His radical power dwells within me always, as it does for each of the people I saw that night. If God doesn't stand outside, let's you and me not either.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
He has ears to hear.
God is still good today. That's a remarkable trick--being so good two days in a row.
Every day for all of eternity. Particularly impressive.
The sense of God's presence was very acute in the sanctuary at James River last night. I don't mean that to be trite, or ridiculous. I mean it sincerely, and with force. Every so often, I am in a church or a particular service of a church I frequent, and the sense of God is overwhelming. I close my eyes. I stop singing, and just feel.
Last night, eyes closed, head bowed, listening to the voices around me singing praise to Christ, I was overcome with the reality of the situation. Regardless of our creed or dogma, we serve the same Lord. Whether or not I think my pewmate's politics are atrocious, and without reference to the finer points of her theology, we are one. That's truth. And that's good. It's a hard lesson for me, and one I need to learn again and again.
Later, we began to pray. Spoken prayer arose from the crowd around me--the general hum of so many voices, punctuated by the individuals I could hear distinctly. Some whispering, some talking aloud, clear as day. All praying fervently to God, for help, for love, and comfort. Suddenly, everything in me slowed. I talk fast, I type fast, I pray fast. But in that moment, I drawled. One word after another, slow and steady, and silent. And I was struck by the oddity that though my voice is silent, amidst all of these voices aloud, God heard me. One prayer in thousands. He heard me. He heard me. He HEARD me. A small miracle.
I sank back into my chair, comfortable and loved, and content to be with Him, and His many, many lovers. I listened to the prayers go up around me, and listened to my own prayers. And basked in the love of a God so powerful. In that moment, His will made such perfect sense. "Be with me," He said. "The rest will take care of its self."
I am always thinking. I mean, I think a lot. About everything. Even things that don't need to be thought about. And when I think about God, and church, and religion, and spirituality, I start to tend to get a little nuts. I get mired in the confusion, and forget to enjoy it. Without darkness, what is light? Without pain, who would care for joy?
Lindell told this funny story of an elderly woman who, for several months in a row, would come to his bible study, and challenge him. Apparently, she was not having any of what he had to offer. This made me laugh so hard because I am that woman. I show up every week, two times per week, and I'm sure look as though I'm on the suit-end of an IRS audit. I'm evaluating. Deciding.
I endorse both. But I don't know that thought has to be mutually exclusive to feeling.
What would Jeremiah do?
Every day for all of eternity. Particularly impressive.
The sense of God's presence was very acute in the sanctuary at James River last night. I don't mean that to be trite, or ridiculous. I mean it sincerely, and with force. Every so often, I am in a church or a particular service of a church I frequent, and the sense of God is overwhelming. I close my eyes. I stop singing, and just feel.
Last night, eyes closed, head bowed, listening to the voices around me singing praise to Christ, I was overcome with the reality of the situation. Regardless of our creed or dogma, we serve the same Lord. Whether or not I think my pewmate's politics are atrocious, and without reference to the finer points of her theology, we are one. That's truth. And that's good. It's a hard lesson for me, and one I need to learn again and again.
Later, we began to pray. Spoken prayer arose from the crowd around me--the general hum of so many voices, punctuated by the individuals I could hear distinctly. Some whispering, some talking aloud, clear as day. All praying fervently to God, for help, for love, and comfort. Suddenly, everything in me slowed. I talk fast, I type fast, I pray fast. But in that moment, I drawled. One word after another, slow and steady, and silent. And I was struck by the oddity that though my voice is silent, amidst all of these voices aloud, God heard me. One prayer in thousands. He heard me. He heard me. He HEARD me. A small miracle.
I sank back into my chair, comfortable and loved, and content to be with Him, and His many, many lovers. I listened to the prayers go up around me, and listened to my own prayers. And basked in the love of a God so powerful. In that moment, His will made such perfect sense. "Be with me," He said. "The rest will take care of its self."
I am always thinking. I mean, I think a lot. About everything. Even things that don't need to be thought about. And when I think about God, and church, and religion, and spirituality, I start to tend to get a little nuts. I get mired in the confusion, and forget to enjoy it. Without darkness, what is light? Without pain, who would care for joy?
Lindell told this funny story of an elderly woman who, for several months in a row, would come to his bible study, and challenge him. Apparently, she was not having any of what he had to offer. This made me laugh so hard because I am that woman. I show up every week, two times per week, and I'm sure look as though I'm on the suit-end of an IRS audit. I'm evaluating. Deciding.
I endorse both. But I don't know that thought has to be mutually exclusive to feeling.
What would Jeremiah do?
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
created god/Creator God.
God is good.
I rarely say things like that. Not that it's rarely true. It's always true. I just don't talk that way. It wigs out my pot-smoking friends. And my non pot-smoking friends, come to that.
But today, friends, I will say--aloud, mind you--that God is good.
I have been marveling recently at the grandeur of God's love. That if in fact there is a God (as I believe there is), He created the terrible beauty of this world, and gave me eyes to see it, and a heart to be stirred by it. What love.
The pastor of my church gave a message tonight on weakness. And as he spoke of his own struggles (some heart-shattering words of hope and brokenness), and of how God worked through his weakness, I realized... I don't really believe that God will use me.
Even as I write that, a million objections leap to mind. I don't mean to imply that I don't think I have purpose. Or that my life is in any way without worth, or that I am in any way without skill or ability.
But I have lived for so long as an outsider to the church, that I wonder if I have somehow stunted my sense of purpose within His church. I have lived so wholly within the deception that I create my life's meaning, that now, I fear I've lost the meaning. I've assumed that His perfect will can't ever be truly known, and so we all must fight blindly through, to our own purposes. Perhaps I have allowed my created god to take the place of the Creator God.
Some questions: If I've known myself to be the recipient of God's gifts, why haven't I assumed they'd have a purpose, a fulfillment? I've felt that I have a purpose outside the Christian world--why has that become so separate from my role within the body? How will my faith change as a result of actively seeking God's purpose for my life? How will I do that without becoming a weird, Christian-y Christian who uses phrases like "actively seeking God's purpose for my life"? What if it seems my skills are pushing me in a direction that is just crazy to me? How do I make sure it's God's voice guiding me, rather than that of my culture, or people I admire? What will happen to me through this whole process? What can I not anticipate?
What dreams may come.
I rarely say things like that. Not that it's rarely true. It's always true. I just don't talk that way. It wigs out my pot-smoking friends. And my non pot-smoking friends, come to that.
But today, friends, I will say--aloud, mind you--that God is good.
I have been marveling recently at the grandeur of God's love. That if in fact there is a God (as I believe there is), He created the terrible beauty of this world, and gave me eyes to see it, and a heart to be stirred by it. What love.
The pastor of my church gave a message tonight on weakness. And as he spoke of his own struggles (some heart-shattering words of hope and brokenness), and of how God worked through his weakness, I realized... I don't really believe that God will use me.
Even as I write that, a million objections leap to mind. I don't mean to imply that I don't think I have purpose. Or that my life is in any way without worth, or that I am in any way without skill or ability.
But I have lived for so long as an outsider to the church, that I wonder if I have somehow stunted my sense of purpose within His church. I have lived so wholly within the deception that I create my life's meaning, that now, I fear I've lost the meaning. I've assumed that His perfect will can't ever be truly known, and so we all must fight blindly through, to our own purposes. Perhaps I have allowed my created god to take the place of the Creator God.
Some questions: If I've known myself to be the recipient of God's gifts, why haven't I assumed they'd have a purpose, a fulfillment? I've felt that I have a purpose outside the Christian world--why has that become so separate from my role within the body? How will my faith change as a result of actively seeking God's purpose for my life? How will I do that without becoming a weird, Christian-y Christian who uses phrases like "actively seeking God's purpose for my life"? What if it seems my skills are pushing me in a direction that is just crazy to me? How do I make sure it's God's voice guiding me, rather than that of my culture, or people I admire? What will happen to me through this whole process? What can I not anticipate?
What dreams may come.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
religious fetish.
I walked out of church again today. I was standing there, singing, and whamm-o, it all felt so overwhelming. There's been a 24-7, 10-screen cineplex going in my head. Screen one: a close friend and mentor of mine telling me that the conservative evangelical faith is idiocy. On another screen there's a video montage of Lindell and all of his prosperity doctrine praise reports. Then, screen three, it's me! I'm out with my friend, Jake, and he's asking me all of these questions about the quality of the teaching at James River. The next screen shows me again--this time in some friends' living room, the two of them casually discussing doing some drugs later, and I'm thinking, "Holy God, can I be in this room? I need to be in this room". Another screen shows a parade of the megapastors whose blogs and twitters I follow. Yet another loops footage of every nonsensical thing one of the conservatives has said to me. And then the next screen is Tim Keene, and my heart stills for a moment. There is truth to be found here, it's going to be okay. But then, another screen, another scene of illogicality, and excess in the megachurch. The next shows the unending need in the world, juxtaposed against the grandeur of James River. And another, and another, and another...
I'm not wavering in my faith. I'm not doubting my belief in Christ. But I do wonder where all of this is leading.
I spend far too much time listening to sermons, and reading books, and talking to people about God. Far too much time for someone who has no place in the formal ministry. I'll just be that weird psychology professor with a religious fetish.
I'm not wavering in my faith. I'm not doubting my belief in Christ. But I do wonder where all of this is leading.
I spend far too much time listening to sermons, and reading books, and talking to people about God. Far too much time for someone who has no place in the formal ministry. I'll just be that weird psychology professor with a religious fetish.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
me and Jerry.
Jeremiah. I am naming my first-born after Jeremiah. Unless I marry a yuppie, in which case it'll end up as something like Jadon Skye. Or Payton Riley. Or some other combo designed to cause gender confusion, but make a kid easily identifiable by birth year (2005).
Earlier this week, it occurred to me that perhaps I've been looking for a mentor in all the wrong places (you know, like bars, and street corners, and church), and that maybe it's time hit the good book. A dead mentor has to be better than no mentor. Particularly when that dead mentor has done some crazy junk, and proved him (or her)self to God, and managed to be canonized. None of my previous mentors have reached that level of literary fame.
So, ok. Decision made, I'm going to choose someone from the Old Testament to help me out. Check. Now what? There's a boatload of rockin' potential mentors in that shizzle. Do I ask for resumes? Hold auditions? I mean, seriously. Though it'd be fun to write little skits with hand-puppets that have Abraham and Esther duking it out on my kitchen table, I see that taking a left turn from productivity.
I could pray. But seeing as how I don't really even have a short-list, and I'm not startlingly well-acquainted with most of the Old Testament, I was having trouble believing that I could get a definitive answer from God. I kept imagining that one name would pop into my head, "Moses!" And then I'd argue with myself for ten minutes about whether I had decided on Moses, or it had really been God's suggestion. So then, naturally, I'd clear my mind, hissing "Don't think about Moses, don't think about Moses," then "ok, go!" "Moses!" That could go on for hours.
I decided to put the debate on hold for a trip to Third Street Books in Ozark. I love books. Cheap books, even better. Used books, doubly better because they're generally cheap AND they make me feel environmentally-friendly, like when I get coffee from Starbucks, and read that my cup is "95% post-consumer material," (though I have no idea what that actually means, somebody does, and people seem to think it's good, so I'm going to keep feeling good about it).
I then spent an hour and a half examining each title in the theology section, making sure I could live without it. And then I hit the commentaries. Book by book, blessed shelves of knowledge and wonder. Oh man, they even smelled like bliss. I don't really care much for discussions about what heaven will be like, but I hope to be met at the gates and led immediately into the library. I bet there's a slammin' library. What do books in heaven smell like? Do you think they smell better than earth books? Or just as good? More inky, maybe...
So I was in the commentaries. And I chose Jeremiah. Right then and there. I don't know much about Jeremiah. Or I didn't. I do now. But at that moment, I just saw a book about Jeremiah, and thought, "Yeah, that looks about right."
So, friends, Jeremiah it is. I have a mentor. No kitchen-table, Old Testament celebrity death matches. No resumes, or auditions. I like to think that God had a hand in the choice. Unless Jeremiah turns out to be a crappy mentor, in which case, I'll take the blame. I'll try to do some periodic posting on how our relationship unfurls.
Right now I think we're just trying to get to know one another. I'm more interested in this than he is.
Earlier this week, it occurred to me that perhaps I've been looking for a mentor in all the wrong places (you know, like bars, and street corners, and church), and that maybe it's time hit the good book. A dead mentor has to be better than no mentor. Particularly when that dead mentor has done some crazy junk, and proved him (or her)self to God, and managed to be canonized. None of my previous mentors have reached that level of literary fame.
So, ok. Decision made, I'm going to choose someone from the Old Testament to help me out. Check. Now what? There's a boatload of rockin' potential mentors in that shizzle. Do I ask for resumes? Hold auditions? I mean, seriously. Though it'd be fun to write little skits with hand-puppets that have Abraham and Esther duking it out on my kitchen table, I see that taking a left turn from productivity.
I could pray. But seeing as how I don't really even have a short-list, and I'm not startlingly well-acquainted with most of the Old Testament, I was having trouble believing that I could get a definitive answer from God. I kept imagining that one name would pop into my head, "Moses!" And then I'd argue with myself for ten minutes about whether I had decided on Moses, or it had really been God's suggestion. So then, naturally, I'd clear my mind, hissing "Don't think about Moses, don't think about Moses," then "ok, go!" "Moses!" That could go on for hours.
I decided to put the debate on hold for a trip to Third Street Books in Ozark. I love books. Cheap books, even better. Used books, doubly better because they're generally cheap AND they make me feel environmentally-friendly, like when I get coffee from Starbucks, and read that my cup is "95% post-consumer material," (though I have no idea what that actually means, somebody does, and people seem to think it's good, so I'm going to keep feeling good about it).
I then spent an hour and a half examining each title in the theology section, making sure I could live without it. And then I hit the commentaries. Book by book, blessed shelves of knowledge and wonder. Oh man, they even smelled like bliss. I don't really care much for discussions about what heaven will be like, but I hope to be met at the gates and led immediately into the library. I bet there's a slammin' library. What do books in heaven smell like? Do you think they smell better than earth books? Or just as good? More inky, maybe...
So I was in the commentaries. And I chose Jeremiah. Right then and there. I don't know much about Jeremiah. Or I didn't. I do now. But at that moment, I just saw a book about Jeremiah, and thought, "Yeah, that looks about right."
So, friends, Jeremiah it is. I have a mentor. No kitchen-table, Old Testament celebrity death matches. No resumes, or auditions. I like to think that God had a hand in the choice. Unless Jeremiah turns out to be a crappy mentor, in which case, I'll take the blame. I'll try to do some periodic posting on how our relationship unfurls.
Right now I think we're just trying to get to know one another. I'm more interested in this than he is.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
First church of Ashley.
My church preemptively canceled Wednesday night services, due to four inches of snow. We could learn something from those Minnesota Lutherans. Their Jesus shows up (albeit in snow pants, and one of those funny hats with the earflaps). Ours apparently rocks some flip-flops, and a tee-shirt (probably one with a rhinestone eagle on it, as pastors seem to be hip to these days).
Anyhow, seeing as I’m a church nerd, I called around to find another service. Closed. Closed. Closed some more. In a town of 500 churches, I was destined be un-churched last night. And then, inspiration.
The First Church of Ashley. First, we rocked out to Ben Folds’ “Jesusland” on repeat for several minutes. Child, testify! Then, there was a reading of the first 15 chapters of Jeremiah (hot stuff). And finally, a message. A message-ette, really, as by that time, I was exhausted by all of the secular rocking, and Old Testament wrath.
A friend of mine from home has this theory. She says that when we call one another “Brother,” it serves to remind us of our intimate connection with one another in Christ, and causes us to treat each other more kindly. Ergo, if we call one another “pastor,” it should remind us of our responsibility to know and understand God’s Word, and cause us to apply ourselves to such scholarship.
In that spirit, Pastor Ashley then gave the message-ette in the esteemed, but poorly-attended First Church of Ashley:
Good evening, overeager pharisaical pricks/Sunday Christians/truly committed/snobby elite/cowards looking for comfort/argumentative girl in the third row. I hope that this evening finds you all feeling great after your weeks of condemning others/watching Football/feeding the poor/throwing dinner parties/working/writing blog posts about me.
Look here, I can't promise you that God will show you favor if you do what the Bible says. At least not any favor that we might recognize as such. I can't even tell you that I'm certain about my own understanding of the Bible. God's understanding is a gift from Him alone. So if you're here because you want twelve steps to a better life, you'd best find another church. There are plenty out there that can hook you up. I can tell you how I think God wants us to live. Whether or not living that way leads to a great life filled with material comforts, or endless trouble until the moment of our last breath, that's for God to know. But no matter what, please remember that you exist at His whim. That has to be worth something. If not love, then fear, and all knowledge begins with the fear of the Lord. So don't take comfort in a hope for a better life here, because this isn't comfortable. Don't be "good," don't pray, don't tithe, don't fast, because someone has led you to believe that doing those things is any kind of assurance of good things on earth. It's not. The circumstances of your life might suck. And the lazy son-of-a-married-couple down the street will win the lottery.
See, people, we’re in for the long game. The long, messy, confusing, and sometimes painful game. Then again, sometimes joyful. There will be joy. There will be laughter, and, if you are so blessed as to understand the true meaning of God’s favor, there will be inestimable power. But I can guarantee you that if you do this thing real, at some point, you will want out. This will seem too hard, too confusing. The sacrifices will seem too great. You’ll turn to the left, and the right, and say, “Father, who are you?” You will cry yet.
I am not convinced that such moments aren’t among His greatest glories.
Though our minds are bound in time and place, our hearts--they know the infinite. So I can’t promise you comfort, or security, or even certainty. Even if you are willing to be uncertain here with me, if you’re willing to commit to something that will at times be wildly uncomfortable, the most I can promise is a life spent together, seeking God. I say seeking not because we’re not with Him. We are always with Him. Or rather, He is always with us. I say that we will spend our lives seeking because though we will one day know, today we do not. Today, we struggle to understand, though one day we will look upon Him.
If this message doesn’t soothe you, take heart—it’s not meant to. We are not equals with God. His Church is not a democracy. Or a day care, or a therapy group, or an investment firm. We don’t serve Him to be given something, but because we have already received. And the knowledge of that gift, of His continuing gifts, illuminates the path ahead. Not all of it. Not much of it, really. Maybe a step, or two, or three…
Where those steps will lead might not be beautiful to us. Sacrifice is rarely beautiful but in the whole, in the context. But I do believe that our sacrifice is beautiful to God. And thus, when our lives seem most ugly, and disorderly, and less comfortable than we’d like, may just be the moments when they form a most breath-taking view from Heaven.
Go in peace. And don't forget to watch 30 Rock tomorrow.
Anyhow, seeing as I’m a church nerd, I called around to find another service. Closed. Closed. Closed some more. In a town of 500 churches, I was destined be un-churched last night. And then, inspiration.
The First Church of Ashley. First, we rocked out to Ben Folds’ “Jesusland” on repeat for several minutes. Child, testify! Then, there was a reading of the first 15 chapters of Jeremiah (hot stuff). And finally, a message. A message-ette, really, as by that time, I was exhausted by all of the secular rocking, and Old Testament wrath.
A friend of mine from home has this theory. She says that when we call one another “Brother,” it serves to remind us of our intimate connection with one another in Christ, and causes us to treat each other more kindly. Ergo, if we call one another “pastor,” it should remind us of our responsibility to know and understand God’s Word, and cause us to apply ourselves to such scholarship.
In that spirit, Pastor Ashley then gave the message-ette in the esteemed, but poorly-attended First Church of Ashley:
Good evening, overeager pharisaical pricks/Sunday Christians/truly committed/snobby elite/cowards looking for comfort/argumentative girl in the third row. I hope that this evening finds you all feeling great after your weeks of condemning others/watching Football/feeding the poor/throwing dinner parties/working/writing blog posts about me.
Look here, I can't promise you that God will show you favor if you do what the Bible says. At least not any favor that we might recognize as such. I can't even tell you that I'm certain about my own understanding of the Bible. God's understanding is a gift from Him alone. So if you're here because you want twelve steps to a better life, you'd best find another church. There are plenty out there that can hook you up. I can tell you how I think God wants us to live. Whether or not living that way leads to a great life filled with material comforts, or endless trouble until the moment of our last breath, that's for God to know. But no matter what, please remember that you exist at His whim. That has to be worth something. If not love, then fear, and all knowledge begins with the fear of the Lord. So don't take comfort in a hope for a better life here, because this isn't comfortable. Don't be "good," don't pray, don't tithe, don't fast, because someone has led you to believe that doing those things is any kind of assurance of good things on earth. It's not. The circumstances of your life might suck. And the lazy son-of-a-married-couple down the street will win the lottery.
See, people, we’re in for the long game. The long, messy, confusing, and sometimes painful game. Then again, sometimes joyful. There will be joy. There will be laughter, and, if you are so blessed as to understand the true meaning of God’s favor, there will be inestimable power. But I can guarantee you that if you do this thing real, at some point, you will want out. This will seem too hard, too confusing. The sacrifices will seem too great. You’ll turn to the left, and the right, and say, “Father, who are you?” You will cry yet.
I am not convinced that such moments aren’t among His greatest glories.
Though our minds are bound in time and place, our hearts--they know the infinite. So I can’t promise you comfort, or security, or even certainty. Even if you are willing to be uncertain here with me, if you’re willing to commit to something that will at times be wildly uncomfortable, the most I can promise is a life spent together, seeking God. I say seeking not because we’re not with Him. We are always with Him. Or rather, He is always with us. I say that we will spend our lives seeking because though we will one day know, today we do not. Today, we struggle to understand, though one day we will look upon Him.
If this message doesn’t soothe you, take heart—it’s not meant to. We are not equals with God. His Church is not a democracy. Or a day care, or a therapy group, or an investment firm. We don’t serve Him to be given something, but because we have already received. And the knowledge of that gift, of His continuing gifts, illuminates the path ahead. Not all of it. Not much of it, really. Maybe a step, or two, or three…
Where those steps will lead might not be beautiful to us. Sacrifice is rarely beautiful but in the whole, in the context. But I do believe that our sacrifice is beautiful to God. And thus, when our lives seem most ugly, and disorderly, and less comfortable than we’d like, may just be the moments when they form a most breath-taking view from Heaven.
Go in peace. And don't forget to watch 30 Rock tomorrow.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
the top five
In my conversations with non-evangelical friends, I’ve been asked repeatedly about “the most outrageously weird or bizarre thing” I have experienced in my five months with the conservative evangelicals. So I figure that the outrageously weird and bizarre habits of the conservative evangelicals must be of some interest to people. Here are my top five:
The shower-wall method of scripture memorization. About a month ago, I posted about discovering scripture verses on the walls of my new shower. Not wholly a pleasant discovery, but I’ve gotten used to it. I even added some of my own biblical pizzazz (check out Ecclesiastes 10:19). Anyway, I let it go, thinking it was just a weird thing that my roommate happened to do. Then someone from my church commented on the blog, telling me that, no—infact, this is a thing. Like “biblical bling,” and “worship centers.” It’s a thing in the evangelical world. People write verses on their shower walls. Update: I brought this up with some friends in a bar in St. Louis last week, and girls in St. Louis do it, too. It’s now officially a thing, since it happens in the 18th largest city in the United States. Endorsed by barfly girls, no-less.
Awkward swear-word stand-ins. Kicks and giggles. Oh my word. Oh brother. Stinkin’. Eggs and bacon! These are the ones I hear most often. I think I would kick myself without giggling if I ever used any of them seriously. I have settled for the standard cool-kid Christian curses—effing, holy crap, darn, scheisse (which I think I only get away with because it’s in German—apparently, swearing in other languages is kosher). I will drop something minor every once in awhile, but then I just feel bad for making them look so uncomfortable. About 7 weeks ago I dropped my first and last ever f-bomb during casual conversation following a Life Group. You would have thought I had lit somebody’s grandma on fire. And that she was somehow flame-retardant, and turning into The Incredible Hulk in front of us. There was a lot of stricken-ness going on.
Awkward words in general. He laid it on my heart. Let God take it. I think we should just bless her with all our hearts. Confession: sometimes, I don’t even know what we’re talking about. And I’m kind of convinced that sometimes they don’t know either, and that’s why they just keep getting louder and louder when they pray. Like when your deaf Aunt Molly can’t hear you, so your whispered questions about your cousin’s rehab turn into hisses, then shouts, then family stories for years to come. I have stood in conversation with people during which almost all of the above phrases, and several that I don’t have the stomach for, have been uttered, and at the end, I just feel drunk. Drunk on the love of Christ. But drunk all the same, and drunkenness doesn’t lend itself to clarity.
Extreme movie censorship. Last week someone told me that Schindler’s List would have been a good movie had the film-makers not “ruined it with all that nudity.” I said what you would have said, “You mean, the part where the SS officers are forcing the Jews to strip down on their way into the gas chambers?” Him: “Yeah, that and other parts.” Oh brother. The next day, someone else told me that she thought that nudity was only okay in movies about tribal peoples, because they don’t really know any better. Also, there’s an edited version of A Christmas Story.
The inability to really understand the non-Christian world. This doesn’t hold for all of the evangelicals I have met, but for those with whom it is relevant, their confusion is confusing. I started talking about the inerrancy of scripture with somebody way back when I first moved down here. I explained that I’m ok with it, but think that the inerrancy of scripture is often confused with a human inerrancy in interpretation. That I’m against. And I go on to say that a lot of my friends don’t believe that scripture is relevant at all. The girl looks at me, and says, completely innocently (bless her heart), “I don’t understand.” To which I say, “I don’t understand what you don’t understand.” On which she lays the gold standard of an evangelical response. “Well…If God wrote the Bible…And God can’t lie…” You can imagine the humdinger of a silence that hung in the air after that one.
I love these people. I count them as friends. I don’t present these things to mock or destroy. I offer them as modest observations of a culture that sometimes scares me, sometimes beckons me, sometimes pushes me to despair, and almost always makes me laugh.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Faking it on the fringes.
Lindell told this story on Sunday of planting a church in Kansas City. With only twenty days to go, it came about that he and this 30-person congregation needed $100,000 to close the deal that would give them a home. Naturally, to make the story a story, they didn't have the cash. So Lindell does something out of character. He sets out to woo a Christian businessman. I like to imagine that there were mimosas involved, and tender loving promises of sweet, sweet collateral.
To make a short story shorter, the businessman tells Lindell to go back and see what his congregation can do. Then he'll write a check for the gap. So Sunday comes, and oh my word (or oh brother, whichever non-expetive you prefer), the congregation antes up $95,000. The businessman, unexpectedly, only has to kick in 5000 bucks. God is good.
But is He?
Stories like these are told to provide support for the notion that our God is one of commonplace miracles. He will take care of you. He will provide. And regardless of whether you consider such things to be miracles, all good things come from God. So praise God.
But that storyline--is it good? Is it God?
One of the megatweeters I follow posted earlier to congratulate his friend, Rick Warren, on raising the money to put the church out of the red. The amount raised was astronomical, and it reminded me of Lindell's story, and made me think...what the hell are we doing?
Why can we raise hundreds of thousands to support largely self-serving ministries, but haven't made a dent in poverty and homelessness? That is so massively uncool. And unChrist. It's anti-Christ. It's unTruth of the highest form. It's a willing turning from God, to accomodate our own vision of the "modern" church. It is truly living on the fringes of God's love, and His truth, deluding ourselves into believing that we're in the center. To actually live in the center would be very much uncomfortable, I imagine.
I say imagine, because what the hell am I doing? Nothing. I'm doing nothing. I'm talking. I'm writing. I'm faking. Oddly, I live on the fringes of the modern church precisely because I want to live in the center of Christ's church.
To make a short story shorter, the businessman tells Lindell to go back and see what his congregation can do. Then he'll write a check for the gap. So Sunday comes, and oh my word (or oh brother, whichever non-expetive you prefer), the congregation antes up $95,000. The businessman, unexpectedly, only has to kick in 5000 bucks. God is good.
But is He?
Stories like these are told to provide support for the notion that our God is one of commonplace miracles. He will take care of you. He will provide. And regardless of whether you consider such things to be miracles, all good things come from God. So praise God.
But that storyline--is it good? Is it God?
One of the megatweeters I follow posted earlier to congratulate his friend, Rick Warren, on raising the money to put the church out of the red. The amount raised was astronomical, and it reminded me of Lindell's story, and made me think...what the hell are we doing?
Why can we raise hundreds of thousands to support largely self-serving ministries, but haven't made a dent in poverty and homelessness? That is so massively uncool. And unChrist. It's anti-Christ. It's unTruth of the highest form. It's a willing turning from God, to accomodate our own vision of the "modern" church. It is truly living on the fringes of God's love, and His truth, deluding ourselves into believing that we're in the center. To actually live in the center would be very much uncomfortable, I imagine.
I say imagine, because what the hell am I doing? Nothing. I'm doing nothing. I'm talking. I'm writing. I'm faking. Oddly, I live on the fringes of the modern church precisely because I want to live in the center of Christ's church.
straight down the middle, to the end.
I'm afraid that if I continue to go to these conservative churches, I will begin to take on their thought patterns, and ideologies. It's so dangerous.
I don't believe that God works the way they say He does. The sermons often come off as twelve-steps to God's grace. If you do A, B, and C, and do them with a pure heart, then God will provide X, Y and Z. Real life teaches otherwise. Horrendous and fortuitous things happen to wonderful people, and terrible people alike. Life is unpredictable. And that's ok! I don't think that means that God doesn't exist, nor that He's not a benevolent God.
Such arguments are met with examples from scripture, generally. That's a sticky thicket. A book written by men, across a smattering of literary genres, in cultures and philosophies that few of us now understand.
But how do I balance my fear of falling to the nonsense, with my desire to be humble, and changeable? Truly, that's going to have to be a God thing. I don't know that I can do that without divine help.
To the left, nor the right.
I don't believe that God works the way they say He does. The sermons often come off as twelve-steps to God's grace. If you do A, B, and C, and do them with a pure heart, then God will provide X, Y and Z. Real life teaches otherwise. Horrendous and fortuitous things happen to wonderful people, and terrible people alike. Life is unpredictable. And that's ok! I don't think that means that God doesn't exist, nor that He's not a benevolent God.
Such arguments are met with examples from scripture, generally. That's a sticky thicket. A book written by men, across a smattering of literary genres, in cultures and philosophies that few of us now understand.
But how do I balance my fear of falling to the nonsense, with my desire to be humble, and changeable? Truly, that's going to have to be a God thing. I don't know that I can do that without divine help.
To the left, nor the right.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
dead mentor, living faith
What am I gonna do?
I keep asking myself that.
I came back early from St. Louis because I felt an overwhelming urge to be at James River this morning. I just wanted to be home, in my church. Even as I disagree with 50% of what is said and done there. Ouch. This is un-fun.
A friend of mine, the one I met at the bar last week, asked me some really great questions about my faith. And I realized...I couldn't answer them. He asked me how I was living my faith. How I saw my faith growing in the future. What my struggles in that growth were. And then some questions about James River. He noted that I thought the preaching style was phenomenal, but what about the content?
Ouch, ouch, ouch. The culture down here doesn't lend itself to answering those questions well. Everything is so insular that in some ways, the faith is about rules. If you keep them well, you get to feel good about yourself, and believe that God will protect and reward you. If you don't keep the rules well, but are an A-student on repentance, same deal. Falter in both, you should probably hit up the altar call.
This is the framework on which much is draped, and built, so that ultimately, the frame can't be seen. That's important, because if I were to propose in discussion with friends what I've just written, it would be flat-out denied. But the structure can be seen in behavior, and assumptions.
I don't know that I understand all of this yet. But I do know that my friend asked the right questions, and that his church seems to support both questions and answers in a way that I desperately need right now. I'm praying for a mentor of some sort. I need someone to be able to bridge the gap between left and right, liberal and conservative, north and south, traditional and modern. I need for someone to say, "Yes, absolutely--I see what you're saying, but what about...?" Actually, I need for someone to say it, but actually be able to say it. I know this sounds snobby, and terrible, but most of the people I meet here just don't get it. And they don't get that they don't get it. It makes me want to shoot myself in the foot, or just shoot something, preferably vodka.
I'm worried about leaving that last line in here, even as a joke. And that scares me. I know it'll be judged. Tsk-tsked.
I can hear a friend tell me, "Just read the Bible. Pray." Not ridiculous at all, but definitely ridiculous in the way it's intended. I can read the Bible. And I do. I've always been a big fan, actually. And I can even assume that God touches me as I read it, to help me understand Truth. There's a problem there, though. I can't help but think that people need to stop assuming that God is giving them what ever understanding they feel they come away with. It's more likely that their culture is giving the understanding--they've internalized the values and interpretations of their faith community, so when they read, what seems to them to be God is actually themselves. If this weren't at least partially true, there'd be far fewer very certain, but ultimately wrong, people of all religions.
So what's the answer? There has to be room for faith and mystery, alongside reason and moderate certainty. How do I let both live in me? How will that understanding guide my faith? How do I continue to enjoy myself at James River, without falling in?
This morning, I had this sudden, and forceful impression that what I need now is a more thorough understanding of Old Testament prophets and "heroes." I've been praying and praying for wisdom--maybe my mentor through this process won't be a living one.
I keep asking myself that.
I came back early from St. Louis because I felt an overwhelming urge to be at James River this morning. I just wanted to be home, in my church. Even as I disagree with 50% of what is said and done there. Ouch. This is un-fun.
A friend of mine, the one I met at the bar last week, asked me some really great questions about my faith. And I realized...I couldn't answer them. He asked me how I was living my faith. How I saw my faith growing in the future. What my struggles in that growth were. And then some questions about James River. He noted that I thought the preaching style was phenomenal, but what about the content?
Ouch, ouch, ouch. The culture down here doesn't lend itself to answering those questions well. Everything is so insular that in some ways, the faith is about rules. If you keep them well, you get to feel good about yourself, and believe that God will protect and reward you. If you don't keep the rules well, but are an A-student on repentance, same deal. Falter in both, you should probably hit up the altar call.
This is the framework on which much is draped, and built, so that ultimately, the frame can't be seen. That's important, because if I were to propose in discussion with friends what I've just written, it would be flat-out denied. But the structure can be seen in behavior, and assumptions.
I don't know that I understand all of this yet. But I do know that my friend asked the right questions, and that his church seems to support both questions and answers in a way that I desperately need right now. I'm praying for a mentor of some sort. I need someone to be able to bridge the gap between left and right, liberal and conservative, north and south, traditional and modern. I need for someone to say, "Yes, absolutely--I see what you're saying, but what about...?" Actually, I need for someone to say it, but actually be able to say it. I know this sounds snobby, and terrible, but most of the people I meet here just don't get it. And they don't get that they don't get it. It makes me want to shoot myself in the foot, or just shoot something, preferably vodka.
I'm worried about leaving that last line in here, even as a joke. And that scares me. I know it'll be judged. Tsk-tsked.
I can hear a friend tell me, "Just read the Bible. Pray." Not ridiculous at all, but definitely ridiculous in the way it's intended. I can read the Bible. And I do. I've always been a big fan, actually. And I can even assume that God touches me as I read it, to help me understand Truth. There's a problem there, though. I can't help but think that people need to stop assuming that God is giving them what ever understanding they feel they come away with. It's more likely that their culture is giving the understanding--they've internalized the values and interpretations of their faith community, so when they read, what seems to them to be God is actually themselves. If this weren't at least partially true, there'd be far fewer very certain, but ultimately wrong, people of all religions.
So what's the answer? There has to be room for faith and mystery, alongside reason and moderate certainty. How do I let both live in me? How will that understanding guide my faith? How do I continue to enjoy myself at James River, without falling in?
This morning, I had this sudden, and forceful impression that what I need now is a more thorough understanding of Old Testament prophets and "heroes." I've been praying and praying for wisdom--maybe my mentor through this process won't be a living one.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Rumspringa
One word: Rumspringa.
But I'm home now. In so many ways.
I'm home from St. Louis, where I spent New Year's Eve with some of my best friends from college. After four months in the depths of conservative Christianity, the reverse culture-shock is steep. I found myself watching some trash on MTV, thinking, "My Springfield friends would be freaking out right now at any one of a million sins happening on this television screen." This new "evang-i-vision" stuck with me, everywhere. At the bars, the casino, the liquor store. For better or worse, just as part of my brain registers the secular response to various situations, so too a part now registers the religious response.
Predictably, my college friends were shocked by my stories and observations from the conservative evangelical world. Though, the shock and commiseration were not as satisfying as I expected they'd be. The truth is, I'm feeling alone in my shock. The right is too right to understand, and the left too left. Neither seems to get that it doesn't get the other. So my stories and thoughts fall on a hard-of-hearing audience. I love parts and people of both sides, and it is hard to find people who can have balanced discussions.
Speaking of which, I'm home from my family and friends in the Chicago area. If you have read this blog before, you might be wondering why it suddenly became inaccessible about a week ago. Thanks for trying one last time. I'm glad you did.
I shut down the blog because I came under some fire for the faith I am finding down here. And I suddenly became afraid of anyone seeing the naivete with which I have been living my life. I'm still a little afraid of that. But...I think I'd rather be honest, than fashionable. If my naivete shows, what can I say? I don't want to be a cynic. I can't be anything I'm not--not smarter nor savvier. I might very well be wrong in every idea and philosophy I currently hold. But for the moment, this is where I live. With these ideas, and these philosophies.
So I was scared, maybe even embarrassed. I kept writing, though, and I've decided to make those posts open and published as well. And now I'm going to keep moving on all of this. To come home. I don't know that I'm right about all of what I think about my faith, and most of it doesn't really matter. But for right now, as the scholars argue, I will profess a belief in a Christ who lived a real life, and died a real death, and paid a real debt.
I trust in the love of such a savior to grant me the tenacity to chase the truth, and the wisdom to use it well.
But I'm home now. In so many ways.
I'm home from St. Louis, where I spent New Year's Eve with some of my best friends from college. After four months in the depths of conservative Christianity, the reverse culture-shock is steep. I found myself watching some trash on MTV, thinking, "My Springfield friends would be freaking out right now at any one of a million sins happening on this television screen." This new "evang-i-vision" stuck with me, everywhere. At the bars, the casino, the liquor store. For better or worse, just as part of my brain registers the secular response to various situations, so too a part now registers the religious response.
Predictably, my college friends were shocked by my stories and observations from the conservative evangelical world. Though, the shock and commiseration were not as satisfying as I expected they'd be. The truth is, I'm feeling alone in my shock. The right is too right to understand, and the left too left. Neither seems to get that it doesn't get the other. So my stories and thoughts fall on a hard-of-hearing audience. I love parts and people of both sides, and it is hard to find people who can have balanced discussions.
Speaking of which, I'm home from my family and friends in the Chicago area. If you have read this blog before, you might be wondering why it suddenly became inaccessible about a week ago. Thanks for trying one last time. I'm glad you did.
I shut down the blog because I came under some fire for the faith I am finding down here. And I suddenly became afraid of anyone seeing the naivete with which I have been living my life. I'm still a little afraid of that. But...I think I'd rather be honest, than fashionable. If my naivete shows, what can I say? I don't want to be a cynic. I can't be anything I'm not--not smarter nor savvier. I might very well be wrong in every idea and philosophy I currently hold. But for the moment, this is where I live. With these ideas, and these philosophies.
So I was scared, maybe even embarrassed. I kept writing, though, and I've decided to make those posts open and published as well. And now I'm going to keep moving on all of this. To come home. I don't know that I'm right about all of what I think about my faith, and most of it doesn't really matter. But for right now, as the scholars argue, I will profess a belief in a Christ who lived a real life, and died a real death, and paid a real debt.
I trust in the love of such a savior to grant me the tenacity to chase the truth, and the wisdom to use it well.
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