let them praise.

I worry about losing faith.

Ashley is to faith what Hollywood kiddies are to rehab. In and out. In, then out. Then in again. And out.

You get it.

I worry that I'll wake up, and decide that I was wrong, that I don't believe in, or need Christ. And then we'll have to go through all of this over again. Even though I know why and what I believe. I have to remind myself. Every day, I wake up, and I walk myself again through the sequence towards Christ.

Once, a long time ago, one of my liberal Episcopal mentors from home told me, in response to my skeptically questioning the reality of Christ, that his greatest line of evidence for Christ is how he had experienced this Savior in his own life.

I scoffed. I mean, I scoffed. For years, I held onto that as an example of a suspect corner of his intellect. I thought it was a logically untenable position, and, frankly, sheer ridiculousness.

But now, that is my greatest line of evidence. I can get from point A to point B, intellectually. I understand why my mind is willing to accept that Christ died for my sins. But it's not my intellect that supports my faith at this point.

I believe it in my heart.

At prayer meeting tonight, we prayed for prayer cards, and people fallen ill, and a baby girl with health issues, all in the same moment. Too exhausted to even formulate a prayer, I just said, "Father, I don't know what to pray. I don't know your will. Pray with me." And I swear to you, my heart began to pray. More in images, than words, I prayed. I saw the woman from the list, scared and sick, but lifting her arms to God, praising Him through tears. And I heard myself praying, "Father, let them all praise you." That was the prayer. That these people would praise Him, through the pain, or fear, or hurt. I rarely cry. I almost never cry in public. But the image was so powerful, I felt tears on my cheeks.

I remembered Lindell's words from my favorite sermon: "Finally, when you don't understand, you trust God by faith, and you give Him praise."

Easter seems not to me to be a time of worry. So I think I'll make it a time of praise.

this is what a pentecostal looks like.

People, I done lost my mind.

Let me tell you about it.

I gave a class presentation tonight on "Religious behaviors: a Skinnerian Approach," drawing heavily upon my experiences at James River (though not identifying the church by name). Now, I know that most people hate public speaking, but I love it. LOVE it. I am never happier than when teaching, particularly when I get to gab about psychology, and religion, and research. So I'm in heaven, right?

Then comes the Q&A session. I'm going to just bust out the punchline now. It involved me announcing: "This is what a Pentecostal Christian looks like."

How did this happen? Why did I suddenly decide to become a mouthpiece for a whole bunch of people who would probably prefer that I not identify myself with them?

Well, firstly, it wasn't a decision. It was more of a blurt. Secondly, it was a little liberating, and, with my apologies to all Pentecostals everywhere, I'm going to feel good about it. And finally, it was in response to a comment of a woman that went something like this: "I don't know, I kind of had this idea about what pentecostals look like, like..."

Me: "Reeboks, and jean skirts, and weird?"

Her: "Yes. Exactly. I hope that's not offensive."

Me: "Not at all. I understand. But this is what a Pentecostal Christian looks like [sweeping hand gesture down my body]. My friends dress trendier than me, but they look like Pentecostals, too."

That wasn't the only question. It wasn't the only controversial thing that was said. But fielding the questions was EXHILARATING.

And, I pulled a strong finish on how just because I can explain and describe human behavior with a theory--say, Skinner's--doesn't mean that there is no God, and if there is a God, knowing about behaviorist principles doesn't mean that He doesn't work in, and through, and over them. If the goal of science is Truth, we need to consider the existence of God as any other hypothesis, and create theories, and design measures to accommodate the possibility.

At that point, jeanskirt-and-reeboks lady noted that I was asking her to be open-minded in science, but, are the church people open-minded? Great question. I'm not addressing religious people, I'm addressing budding scientists, and we ought to be chasing down Truth, even if that takes us someplace uncomfortable, someplace religious.

At the end, my questioner came over to tell me that she thought the presentation was amazing, and that it was unfortunate for everyone who had to go after me.

Yes, that is a backdoor brag. But it's not about how great I am. As I went up to begin, I thought, "God, let me have fun tonight, in Your spirit. Let me live out your love with my mind." And, truly, regardless of the grade, Christ came through.

best of march.

I follow a brick-ton of evangelical tweeters. These are my favorite posts from the last few weeks:


-If you say, "My bad habit only hurts myself," you are saying, "the people God created me to serve don't matter." (via @JohnPiper)

-You need Jesus because u must live tomorrow,not only that u might die tonight. Fear evangelism lasts as long as fear does (via @RickWarren)

-Creating multisites are NOT an alternative to planting churches, but a alternative to larger expensive buildings. DO BOTH (via Rick Warren)

-Easy Error:presuming the Bible teaches only what our tradition says it means,fits our system,or personally want it to mean (via Rick Warren)

-Bumper sticker. “Born okay the first time.” O for the day when every people on the planet knows enough to rebel like this. (via John Piper)

-One of the big lies of our culture is that sex is only physical & has no spiritual, emotional & relational consequences. (via Rick Warren)

-I've been regretting the years I spent in cynicism. I think I can trace it to insecurity. Grateful to have Gods grace. (via Don Miller)

Bonus Round.

tik tok

I had a funny post planned, filled with the hi-jinks of my first Evangelical bachelorette experience. It included an extended sequence of picking out a "sexy book" bachelorette gift at the Springfield Borders store, praying all the way to the cashier that I'd not run into one of the 20 or so people I know from James River. And a funny moment while "barn swinging,"--too scared to jump, I stalled, joking "Can we just pray for a second?" Immediately, I hear a chorus of voices, "Lord, Father, protect Ashley as..." Or how we blasted dance music on our way to line-dance, and at the part of the song where the singer shouts out "Oh my God," I heard the car fill with shouts, "Oh my Gosh!"

I smile. Southern Missouri. Conservative Evangelicals.

God is good, no?

I had planned on the funny post, and I might still share some of the funnier, or more interesting moments. But I'm bumping the funny for now.

I have been tied up over Christ. Is He real? Did He really die? And why? I know the line. I can give the line. But what do I really believe? That has been the question.

Over the course of the past few weeks, I have discovered that that question is not simply about truth. It's about illogicality, and fear, and hurt, and worry. About what other people will think, and what God will do, and how all of this will affect my ability to be the me I currently am.

I've had to ask myself some other questions as well. Am I saved? Do I believe that there is such a thing as "being saved," that is resolute and discrete? Have I then accepted Christ? And what happened? Did it not "take"? Maybe I'm just in a season? These last questions are kind of embarrassing to me, frankly.

Let me say this. Regardless of whether I was "saved" or not, whether it "took" or not, I come now. I search myself for Truth, and find that I believe that Christ died, and rose again, and because His death would say nothing of love if not coupled with some form through which we might achieve that love ourselves, I believe that His death offers change to me. That in His death, the ramifications of a sin nature (though we are made in the image of God, we all fall short) were rendered powerless. Because He died to God, I get to live to God. I believe that His Spirit works through me in the world to guide me in ways that I am not always aware of. And that in entering into His Love, I then gain the gift of loving beyond my own abilities.

There are many more things to be said about all of this. But, it was time.

gracefully given.

Grace.

Grace.

Some days, I go to sleep more or less the same as I woke up. Others, like today, I am changed by the moments in between.

Almost from the beginning, I have held to one thing about the people around me: they are filled with grace. I might not agree with their politics, or the particulars of their beliefs, or the way they always sort of spit out the word "feminism," as though it has four letters.

But they are filled with grace. And in their presence, my heart longs for it.

People tell me that they're just trying to convert me. That they're only nice because they want me to believe exactly as they do. Friends from home have insisted that underneath the veneer is hatefulness, unhappiness. Actually, people from here, friends from the university, say the same.

I don't think that's true.

That's what I told my professor today, as she told me that she thinks it's impossible for those with literalist beliefs to have a well-integrated faith, or to experience true psychological well-being, or self-actualization. I don't agree. What I see doesn't support such an assertion. Her response: the christian conservatives only appear to be happy.

All evidence to the contrary.

I spent the afternoon in a home so filled with love, and happiness, and grace, I wish that I could bring her there. Not because I think she'd leave in sudden agreement with me. But because love changes things. If you're open to it. Because the power of grace, of a people who will love me when I am entirely ungraceful, is life-altering.

They don't always, or even often, agree with me. They will not pretend to stand for things they are in fact against. But they love through.

Sometimes, we don't see change in ourselves until weeks, or months, or years after. We wake up one morning, and something throws us back, and we remember, "So that's who I was." Other times, we savor the moment of change. We know immediately the difference.

I stood in the kitchen of an incredible woman, with incredible women, and as we prayed together, I knew that this was an important moment. Though it wasn't overwhelmingly emotional, and was perhaps uncomfortable in part, I felt God telling me to remember, to pay attention. And I did, as though suspending the prayers, suddenly crystalline in mid-air, floating through all of the years of my life, whatever those might hold--ongoing reminders of how God's love accounts for the impossible.

These people I've taken up with, these Christians--they love because they were first Loved. They give grace freely not from their own stores, but from His. So lives are changed.

drizzled love.

I love feeling the rain fall on my skin. I walk across campus, smiling, and thanking God for something to remind me I'm alive.

I was thinking about that on my way to class this morning. I've always loved rain, and snow, and sun, because I can feel them. They are physical realities, and though I don't understand how they work (someone does), or why they work (no one does), I can feel them. I lift my face to the rain, and feel it streaking across my cheeks, and I know that I'm alive.

I have this favorite sermon. It's called "God Chose You!" and Lindell gave it way back in October, and I have probably heard it hundreds of times. I could give the first couple of minutes of it verbatim, right now. In the sermon, he points out that before coming to Christ, we're dead. Actually, he asks the crowd, and they all shout out "Dead!" You can't pick out your coffin, he says, you don't get to pick anything, because you're dead.

I've always felt a little more deeply than do the people around me, it seems. And in the church, I get bowled over by things like the implications of speaking in tongues, or the enormity of God. It's as though there's a threshold beyond which my emotional circuits short, and I'm overwhelmed. The Truth is too huge, too much. I'm afraid I'll get lost in it. Reminds me of that new song by Needtobreathe, "I can't figure out just how much air I will need to breathe when Your tide washes over me."

In the rain this morning, I realized that though the Truths I'm seeing are overwhelming me, they are exactly what I've been looking for. My spirit finds joy in the immensity of life, of the sensation of being alive. My whole life, I've been seeking life. In all sorts of crazy ways.

In college, I partied to feel alive. I thought if I could get out of my self, if I got drunk enough, or danced for long enough, I could feel alive. And sometimes, I got close for a few seconds. I would look around the room, at all of my friends jumping up and down to the beat around me, and it was as though the whole world would slow for a moment. The haze would clear. And I'd feel it. I'd feel that perfect moment of clarity, and connectedness--Emerson called it being "part and particle of God." It never lasted. It couldn't. It wasn't true.

I've read to feel alive. But while Emerson, and Thoreau, and Eliot, and Hesse, and all of the favorites, while they can all write of truth, no lasting life can come from their pages.

I've sought out life, and been unable to find it. Now, I see it, and am terrified by it.

And the pieces continue to slide in to place.

the Word in the night.

The sound of the rain is so soothing.

Some nights, I would sleep with my arms wrapped around my Bible. Curled up, clutching this book, blue leather, with silvered edges, too tired to pray even. I didn't believe the stories. If you had asked me if I was a follower of God or Christ, I might have said, charitably, that I didn't think we could really know for sure, but yeah, maybe. Maybe I was.

And yet. I sensed the power. I wasn't raised with the Bible--it's not as though it was some cherished item from my childhood. I've never been wildly enthusiastic about divine inspiration. I've read large chunks of it, more for intellectual sport, than guidance. But when I was scared for everything, when I felt danger to my very being, I reached for it. Granted, I didn't open it. Just held on it, held it close, clinging to it. It was as though I was saying to God, "I don't have the strength to reach for you, but this book, this concrete object, this solidity, this is all I can do for now."

I was talking with someone yesterday about how I had made it through some things I probably shouldn't have without God, and so it's hard for me to turn over control to Him. I can always trust me. She asked me how I knew that God hadn't been the one to get me through.

Earlier, I was praying to God. I can scarce believe I'm writing this, and I might still remove it tomorrow, but I found myself praying for Him to want me. Do you ever surprise yourself in prayer? I had stopped consciously putting forth the "dutiful prayers" and laundry lists of all that is going on, and suddenly found my heart speaking on its own. And that's what it said. "Father, show me that you want me. Please, I need to know that you want me as yours. I want to give everything, but I need to know Your love."

I don't know what kind of evidence that God might put forth to me.

I imagine that sometimes, the evidence is a hand reaching out in the middle of the night, grasping a Word against all odds.

knock. crack. fall.

I had this dream last night that I was on staff at James River. We were all playing softball in a field on the church grounds (is there a field on the campus?), and while I was in the outfield, a nasty black snake hissed at me. I started screaming, and running towards the doors to the church, but everyone else was laughing because they thought the snake was harmless. Look at the silly suburbanite! But I knew it was a cottonmouth, so I'm booking it, but the snake is chasing me. Literally, reared up with its little head curved up and over, pursuing me across grass, then pavement, all the way to the doors.

Then I made it inside to safety. Totally anti-climactic. Not a very interesting story, my apologies.

Anyway, I'm afraid of what will happen to me if I step fully into faith. I have lived the benefit of taking a very cool approach to Christ. I get to feel the stuff I want to feel when I want to feel it, but then still be loose, and hip, and questing. I get to do this my way. Consequently, what I say in this blog doesn't always (or even generally) match to what I say in personal conversations with Springfield friends, and especially not to Chicago friends. And Truth doesn't always have a bearing on my ideology.

In short, to quote some Hesse, I've been trying "to be both, and have both." I've wanted to be able to be a relativist, and an absolutist, simultaneously. I've been afraid to make a commitment to any ideal, not realizing that I was in fact making a commitment anyway. So when someone said, "Why can't you believe that Christ is your savior?" I could say, "How can you?" All the while thinking that I was taking some sort of high-road, for accepting Christ in a very loose way, but leaving my options open.

Part of this has to do with a fear of being wrong, a fear of missing Truth. The larger part has to do with a fear of emotionalism. I thought I was afraid of emotionalism in faith because it represents to me the lack of intellect. I'm now wondering if it scares me because I'd have to relinquish control. And inherent in that are some heavy emotions. I don't really show joy--at least not in church. I will show all kinds of joy if you present with me an old school Super Mario Bros game, or a puppy.

Likewise, I don't show sincerity in confusion, or depth, or sorrow, or frustration. I write about them, which is mostly because I can imagine that no one reads this blog. But I don't show them. Sometimes, I watch people go up to the altar, and I think, "How do they have the courage to be so bare in front of so many people?" I have a hard time going to church with people I'm very close to, because church is a vulnerable activity, and I'm afraid to be vulnerable to them. I try to concentrate on God, but I fear exposure to those around me. That's why the few times I've lifted my arms in worship at James River, I have to keep my eyes closed. I need to pretend that it's just me and God, and no one else, witnessing such a shocking act of vulnerability.

I know that a sincere faith in Christ doesn't necessarily require outward displays of emotion. I also know that a sincere faith in Christ will probably involve some such displays. And that irregardless of what's being seen, what is known to my own heart would be overwhelming. It already is. He knocks. I crack the door to peak. And the sliver of light is blinding. What happens when you agree to live in Him fully?

I am, by and large, fairly controlled in emotions and behavior. On those personality questionnaires, I say that intelligence is more important than sincerity. With Christ, my intelligence might be necessary, but isn't at all sufficient.

There's nothing anti-climactic about finding safety in the church.

wow.

I wake up in the morning. I say hello to God. I check both of my email accounts. I swing through Twitter, and Facebook. I glance at the front page of the Chicago Tribune. And I read this.

on Kevin's bandwagon.

Every so often, I read something I really like.

the Truth of trust.

The process of understanding Christianity is like one long psychotherapy session. For me, anyway. Why does it seem like this isn't happening to other people? They just...believe. I'm believing, and then not believing, and then asking myself what happened in my childhood so that I don't really understand the concept of trusting God.

Mmhmm, and how do you feel about that, Ash?

I feel gypped. Oops, we can't say that word anymore, in deference to the gypsies. I feeeeeeel... confused.

I'm looking at my bookshelf, where that Shaeffer kid's book about how his faith went up in smoke is sitting on top of Velvet Elvis, is sitting on top of Crazy Love, is sitting on top of The Reason for God. I have a desire to know Truth.

That might be a lie. I'm afraid that I don't desire to know THE Truth, as much as I desire to support MY truth. That's been the rub the entire time I've been down here. I had gone about building this beautiful edifice of liberal, metaphorical faith in Christ, and it was lovely, and sparkling, and felt fantastic. But then these people said, in effect, "Hey wait--that's not the real Truth, though." And I could have blown them off because they're a bunch of Palin voters, but I was just intrigued enough by their love to consider the possibility that they're right. After all, why should I be right, to their wrong? The opposite is also possible. Granted, Palin's candidacy is still an insult to intelligent women everywhere, but as for the spiritual stuff...

I think they're right.

So now I don't get to pretend like it's about Truth anymore. It's about me.

I confuse submitting to Christ, with submitting to the people who represent Christ. And I think it's because I don't trust that there is this thing, the Holy Spirit you might say (no, you, seriously, because I don't talk like that), that works in and through my heart to uncover Truth in God's word and world. So I see this event, accepting Christ, and I think, "then what?" If I can't trust any church to give Truth all the time (I know, I know), how do I find Truth in Christ? Better just keep questioning even in faith. But soon, the questioning turns on itself, and I'm back to the startling line.

In reality, I think that accepting Christ isn't the abandonment of reasoning or questioning, but the trusting that His spirit will guide me.

About trust. Trust is interesting, isn't it? I want to preface this by saying that my family has been healed. I don't know how, and I don't know why. But, despite several divorces, and painful drama, we are all now happy, and healthy, and mostly whole (though, of course, not in perfection). Having said that, I did not grow up in a healthy, happy, and whole family. I grew up in a divided state. And though my parents loved me, they did not always convey that well (God love 'em!). Our wholeness is relatively recent, and so for more of my life than not, I've done well to guard trust closely.

This affects my understanding of God. It affects my ability to trust, beyond doubt, that He loves me, that He won't leave me, and that He'll guide me in Truth. See, it's easy to be guided by God when the destination is beautiful, but much harder when it looks ugly, or worse, you can't even see where you're going. Right now, it looks kind of ugly to me. I'm looking at where I'm supposed to be going. I'm looking at Christ, and the cross, and my palms are getting sweaty just thinking about how uncomfortable it would be to be expressive in church. I'm running from the emotionalism not because I think it's stupid, but because it's scary. Because to accept Christ in Truth would be to admit to something big, something huge, and at that point, it would be impossible to remain a stoic intellectual.

I'm so uncomfortable, I'm ending this blog post here. No pretty ending.

single-file savior.

1. I have a fear of commitment.

2. I really am afraid what other people think about me.

Sad, but true. Both. I've been thinking a lot about all that has happened in the last seven months. I've had to ask myself some embarrassing, but necessary questions.

Did I accept Christ? Am I "saved"? That I feel the need to put it in quotations is problematic. Also problematic is the nagging voice telling me to erase the whole line, because my non-evangelical friends would read it, and think that I've been brainwashed, would think that I've been convinced of silliness and self-doubt.

I'm not going to erase it. I'm trying to use my words in honesty now. And it's a good question. Both are.

Sometimes, I wonder if I won't ever really believe. If I'll warm up to the idea of atonement, "accept" Christ, and then fall, in an endlessly repeating cycle of fancy philosophical footwork, and doubt.

I've never been happy in my faith for long. I've always attributed that to being an outsider. It's hard to be truly happy with a faith lived alone. I'm wondering if there are other reasons I haven't been happy with it. Maybe because the inconsistencies of a powerless "example" of a savior have undermined my sense of what the divine ought to be? Because, at its core, my sense of the extravagance of the real God isn't well-served by my lackadaisical, wish-I-could-be-sure-but-can't philosophy of religion.

Though I find these Pentecostals a little on the strange side, the truth is that they react to the reality that I feel. If they're right about what they believe, their behavior isn't strange at all. Not shocking. Not weird. It is, in fact, exactly what you'd expect to see (dare I see, maybe even less ecstatic than what you'd expect) given the realities of a God who died to release my moribund soul of its sins, of One who speaks anew into the world still.

Someone told me last week that I use sarcasm or humor or shock-value as a defense mechanism, in place of considering truth in sincerity. I know, right? Nice to meet you, Doctor--will I be billed for this conversation?

Humor aside, he was right. I do use those things, and in that way. Even after my acceptance of Christ this past fall, I was unable to say the words, "Christ died for my sins." I write them now in quotations, and I feel mildly uncomfortable. I'm thinking about whether friends will read this, and what they'll think. Will they consider me anti-intellectual? Brainwashed? How will it affect their perceptions of my ability to think, and theorize, and judge accurately whatever is going on in our world?

Over the past few months, I have said that I am a Christian. I will admit that to people. But only with the words, "but not like other Christians," quickly after. What does that even mean? How insulting to these people I've come to love. How divisive. How...cowardly.

I say that I value Truth too much to accept certainty. After all, what if I'm wrong? Better to hold things loosely, and use a lot of "maybes" than to incur the wrath of a jilted Truth un-chosen.

But am I really worried about Truth? I can only live my own. In that way, we come to God in single-file. So why am I living as though other truths matter?

What do I really believe?

theoretically Yours.

I use words. I use them to express joy, and confusion, understanding, love and sometimes a misguided sense of superiority. I don't always use them well, or convey exactly what I intend to convey. Sometimes, I use them poorly. I use words to gloss over complicated ideas, and to wiggle out of having to explicate my beliefs in wholeness and honesty.

Sometimes, most often, that's because I don't know enough to be whole and honest.

If, instead of saying that Christ died for my sins, I can say that "Christ represented a radical love," I am able to stay safely out of the fray. Christians will read the line about radical love, and assume I am on-board with atonement. Non-Christians will read the same words, and accept them without offense. Everyone's the better?

No, not really. The truth is that I don't know now what I believe. And so when I write and speak about the issues, I find myself saying things that are...well, fuzzy. I'm saying fuzzy things because I'm thinking fuzzy things.

One person says to me, "Christ died to atone for your sins." Another says, "Christ came into the world to show you that His love bridges the gap between your sinful nature and His perfection." Two very different concepts. The first assumes a literal debt, and a literal transaction. The second proposes a more of a metaphorical role for Christ's sacrifice. Both theorists, by the way, consider their theologies to be biblically-based. And both are, in a sense.

I grapple with this: That God would come into our world to show us a better way in one specific time, and one specific place, without leaving a form through which all subsequent generations might understand Love, would not suggest a living God. Only a God of 33 AD. One may believe that the scriptures are that living legacy. But scriptures can tell us of God, they cannot be God. If God was on earth only to act as an example, as though to say "I love you past your sins," what does that mean for our sins? What hope have we then got, that we can give and receive a perfect love? If unable to live in Christ, who, in a sense, absorbs that sin, what will we ever know of Truth? Sin fractures vision. And vision is necessary to see Truth. Love cannot exist apart from Truth.

For me to say that I've sinned, but that Christ came to show me how to Love, says nothing of His love for me. His example is useless without my own ability to follow it. And that ability cannot come from within me. Thus, that He entered the world means nothing if not coupled with His death, and resurrection. Because any theology that addresses Christ's Love, is empty without also addressing sin. And to say that we are justified through Christ's love, is an incomplete picture, in that His greatest act of Love is His death. But only if His death changed something. Only if it altered, or made right, some condition of humanity. Only if it made it possible for us to Love in the way that He died attempting to teach. For Christ to have died to fulfill the example of perfect love is powerless. For God to have remained dead would be nonsensical. And without the choice to enter into these acts through acceptance, we would have no hope of ever seeing Truth, of ever loving wholly.

In so far as sin to us is death, not only after our lives, but during, Christ chose then, to die instead. So that we might live in the full light of Truth. Unable to justify ourselves, He died in our place.

What do I believe? Do I have a choice?

lkasfoihlnasgasdfoiuaenasg.

These people speak in tongues. They. speak. in. tongues.

You'll be standing next to one of them in worship, and then, suddenly, something is going on. Words begin to cascade from their mouths in indecipherable syllables, eyes closed, hands aloft. I am going to consider the possibility that it's not culturally- or emotionally-induced hysteria, and that this is just a way that God has given this particular set of believers to express their joy, or pain, or wonderment.

Then again, it could be a sort of hysteria. Either way, they believe it to be a heartfelt, and honest exchange with God, and so it serves a purpose. It's genuine.

What's more interesting to me is the interpretation of tongues. A couple of Sundays ago, a woman began to speak out in the silence of the auditorium readied for a sermon. Moments later, someone else gave the interpretation. As I looked around (to figure out if other people looked as freaked out as I felt--they never seem to), I realized, these people believed that this was God speaking into the room. Literally, the entity who has all power--consider the actual might of God, The GOD--was believed to be giving a word to a modern-day group of believers.

I don't know if I think that that actually happens. But I do know that the possibility is awe-inspiring. As I stood there, I warmed to the implications. My pulse quickened, my face flushed, I felt a little breathless with the possibility that the Creator of the universe could possibly be inspiring a message in the middle of a church, March 2010, Springfield, MO. How staggering--that this God I'm chasing after, this one that I don't understand, who breaks my heart, and frustrates me,and delights me--that He could be known in reality. Too good to be true.

Then again, why? I'm fickle. I won't accept it if it doesn't look like magic. And I won't accept it if it does. Why isn't it possible that God speaks new messages to the world through tongues?

As I said yesterday, to strike the scientific community, if God exists, He might very well exist as a personal God, and if He's a personal God, He might very well speak into our hearts in ways we don't understand. If God is God, the possibility exists that He speaks through people, that He breathes new life into His churches not just through biblical exegesis, and personal, private inspiration, but out in the open, through tongues--a practice that is not un-biblical.

I think that sometimes, we consider possibility by weighting the number of links it takes to get us from something we can accept, to the proposition of interest. That is, if I say to an agnostic friend of mine, God might exist, she'll say ok, and allow me my faith. And if I say, God might exist, and if that's true, He might have inspired the scriptures, she'll say ok, but with uneasiness. But if I say that God might exist, and thus, He might have inspired the scriptures, and thus, since the scriptures speak of tongues, He might be inspiring tongues in His modern church--her uneasiness will end the conversation.

The links from the original proposition became too numerous, the possibility too tenuous. But, really, probability or possibility doesn't work like that. If you agree to one yes, you're allowing for the absolute possibility of the next. The uneasiness is not logical, but emotional.

Tongues get a bad rap because they're weird. Frankly. And they're associated with weird people. But that doesn't mean that they're in some way, un-Truth. The possibility exists that they are what the (weird) people say they are: gifts from God, tools through which the deepest longings of our hearts can be offered to Him, and through which He can answer those pleas.

anti-absolutist absolutes

I proposed to my atheist thesis adviser today that I think that the major flaw with psychological research in religious motivation is that the top theorists don't take into account the possibility of the existence of God.

This is the beginning of the end of my research career. Actually, no. When I write into the discussion section of my thesis that I must take issue, on philosophical grounds, with any famous researchers who purport to find scientific truth based on a notion of "religion as a meaningful but not exclusive framework that provides one's life with a sense of purpose and meaning,"--that will be the beginning of the end. Can I quote famous researchers without attribution? Well, no. Neyrinck, Vansteenkiste, Lens, Duriez, Hutsebaut (2006), I think you're all wrong. Rather, I think you might be wrong. And so should you.

The problem is this: if you create a construct characterized by non-dogmatic seeking, or questing religiosity, and correlate that with well-being, you've done just what you've set out to do. You've shown that people who create a religion that suits their own relativistic vision then feel good about it. But what if the nature of truth isn't relativistic, but absolute? What if there's something to be "rigid" about?

Truth can be frustrating. It can be angering, and annoying. Mostly because it doesn't consult me. Or Bart. Or Martin. I don't know, maybe Willy Lens has the in.

Don't misunderstand me, I'm not suggesting that psychologists who wish to work in this field first prove the existence of God. I'm saying that they do what they were presumably trained to do. To consider ALL the possibilities, with enough objectivity and interest to understand that Truth matters.

We can't prove that God doesn't exist. If He exists, we can't prove that He's not a personal God. And if He's a personal God, we can't prove that He doesn't work in those spaces between our sensations, and our perceptions, between our feelings, and our thoughts. And before the scientists and statisticians get holier-than-thou on my reasoning, and say something snotty like, "So should we even continue doing science, if the invisible God factor can just wipe it all out with one of his mind tricks?" Let's be real. In some fields, a correlation as small as .40 is considered scientifically acceptable. That equates to 16% of the variance in one factor being described by the other.

I've got 16% that says that God did give me that great parking spot this morning.

The bottom line: maybe the Belgians' research is flawless. Maybe they're right. But then, maybe their own biases have clouded the way in which they've constructed and interpreted their research.

None of us are devoid of spiritual beliefs. But some of us are more honest about them than others.

Neyrinck, B., Vansteenkiste, M., Lens, W., Duriez, B., & Hutsebaut, D. (2006). Cognitive, Affective, and Behavioral Correlates of Internalization of Regulations for Religious Activities. Motivation and Emotion, 30, 323-334.

hope from Haiti.

I've been struggling to understand the implications of the incarnation. So I emailed an Episcopalian. Those people are just so right most of the time.

As I read his response, I imagined Tim Keene's response to my strenuous agreement with the Episcopal (or this Episcopalian's) world view. Their theologies are ummm, not identical.

Here's what was great about it: I'm not going crazy. Sometimes, when I talk with my James River friends, their certainty gives me pause. I think, should I be that certain? Are other Christians that certain? And because I don't have the education or the vocabulary to fully articulate the differences I am perceiving between various denominational worldviews, I find myself at a loss to explain to the JRA-ers my reservations to their beliefs. So our conversations turn to mush, and I start to doubt my sanity.

But the Episcopalian could articulate, with beautiful clarity, my own understanding, and the simple power of his explanation helped me to see the differences between where I am, and the location of my friends.

So, it's great to be sane again. Unfortunately, that doesn't clear the tension between the two views. I love the Episcopal mind. But I am thrilled by the Pentecostal passion (even if I behave more like an Episcopalian in its midst). Can I blend the two in a more substantial way than just attending two churches every Sunday (a practice I frequently used back in the Chicago area with Episcopal and nondenominational)?

But about the incarnation. I took a long walk in the sunshine yesterday afternoon, eventually arriving back at my mailbox to find a letter from the Haitian kid I sponsor. By the way, I know that some people might find it untoward to talk openly about a charitable act like that, but I think I'm fairly open in this blog about my not being a saint (ie. this isn't about self-aggrandizement). I unfolded this letter, and saw the handwriting, and my mouth hung open, and all I could think was that I was holding something that came from a place I had never been, from a kid I had never met, and how amazing is that? I made a choice, and something of a sacrifice I guess, that is changing someone's life. Of course, there's no magic or mystery here, in one sense. But in another, this piece of paper represented to me the glory of the Incarnation.

Christ came into the world not in a metaphorical, ethereal sense. But in real, flesh and blood, concrete form. Love, as an entity or emotion, can't be seen, but I used it to help the Haitian kid, and in that way, Love became visible. It became practical, and earthly. So with Christ. I can't see Him, but He came once in practical, earthly form. And the effects of that coming are still felt around the world. They're felt in Haiti right now by a little girl whose favorite color is blue.

I think that sometimes, I misunderstand Christ, and the nature of Truth. I equate supernaturalism with reality, in a sort of unintentional test of God's Truth. As though I'm saying, "God, if it's true, it has to look like magic." I imagine that He might say, "Look around, kid. Where you see Love, there I am." And I'd say, "Well, yeah, but what's so "other" about that, God? How does that prove You? People have always loved." And the response, "They love because I first loved them."

If the person of Christ wasn't also a manifestation of God reaching into the world with a divine love, it means nothing to say that one follows Christ. We love because we were loved before, either through our first birth or second, in our creation or our redemption.

That's pretty magical.

stack of sums.

Dudes. If you have never checked out Mark Driscoll's facebook page, do it. For this reason: His comments allow a snarky kind of debate that divides the church, and all but hands us over to non-Christians for target practice.

I know, I know. That's a funny thing for me to say. I've been hacking away at the church on this blog for seven months. I am the dissenter in almost any room down here.

Which is why, as I read the comments, I thought, "Man, I have got to be more careful."

As always, I believe strongly in a role for open and honest, often critical discourse on issues related to the church. And I have argued ceaselessly that these debates should be had out in the open, so that non-christians can see that we're not a monolithic block of nonsense. That only some of us are nonsensical. On a serious note, so that non-Christians can see that we have disagreements, and that that's okay--God remains on the throne.

But there's a style, and a tone in which these discussions should be had. And as a I read the opinions of Driscoll's facebook followers, only about 50% of whom show respect or thoughtfulness (on either side of the debate), I quickly began tabulating the number of times I have lacked what I expect to see in others. I began adding up the damage I've done.

That's a humbling stack of sums.

the reverend rocks it.

This blog is awesome.

a tumultuous marriage.

This can't be avoided: I am doubting salvation.

I'm asking myself, "What did I mean when I said that I accepted Christ?" How was it that I came to understand atonement? Did I? Or did I make the decision to gloss over my unbelief, in service to the parts I could believe? Was that a good decision? What about now, where I'm having trouble understanding it all again?

Traditionally, I have despised the notion that if you fall out of belief, or away from faith, it means that you were never saved to begin with. We change, and we grow. I'm not convinced that salvation is a one time, all-or-nothing type affair. What does it mean to say that I believe this one thing (a very tenuous thing, by the way), and will never stop believing it, and will always proceed as though it's true?

Then again, I suppose that's what marriage is. And I'm a HUGE fan of marriage (given that my parents have had three spouses each). Marriage is a promise to grow with a person. To uphold the Truth of your love, come hell or high water, even when it doesn't seem to you like you love him. It's a belief in something that sometimes doesn't make sense, and sometimes seems like a lie, and sometimes hurts.

I'm now having the problem I knew I'd have. After I transitioned from a more figurative, "Christ was a great moral example," type of Christianity to a "Christ died for my sins" type of Christianity, I knew that divine inspiration was going to be a problem. I remember thinking, "So I'm a Christian, but I don't believe in the bible, what am I going to do now?" And decided at that point to just sit tight, and do whatever I did believe in, and keep questioning.

But alas, I've now got a full-blown mutiny on my heart. Because I don't believe in the divine inspiration of the scriptures, I can question the reality of atonement freely.

Despair.

dogma to doctrine

I don't know that I've ever mentioned this here, but my research is in religion. Specifically, in the relationship between various motivational orientations towards religion, and corresponding outcomes related to mental health, well-being, and behavior.

So I read a lot of journal papers. And here's what I think is interesting: These psychologists, people whose ranks I am attempting to enter, are a monolithic block of bias. Seriously. Brilliant people. People who have these huge, theoretical minds that are always spinning "what if's" and "how about we try's..." and thinking up these crazy awesome experiments, and toying with conclusions, and interpreting pages and pages of numbers. People whose brains work like I wish mine worked.

But...

Their research is thoroughly biased. Ironically, it's biased because they're attempting to keep out the bias. See, it's like this. Each paper begins with the assumption that religion (Christianity is the most-studied in my sub-field) is merely an instrument. And the psychologist is attempting to understand why different people engage in Christianity for different reasons, and how that results in different outcomes. That's completely valid. But none of the studies ever considers, in any real way, that some of their subjects engage in Christianity because it's truth.

We talk about how people engage in Christianity for external, or introjected, or "religion as a means" reasons--in order to stave off fear, or keep others happy, or maintain social status. We talk about how others engage for internal, or identified, or "religion as an end" reasons--because they value its teachings, or truly believe in its dogma. But, implicit in almost any of these papers is the assumption that Christianity is untrue, and that studying religious motivation will lead to the liberal gold standard: the intellectual panacea.

The researchers can't believe in religious truth because that would bias their results, but they are simultaneously biased by their own unbelief. And in fact, they reify that unbelief as its own sort of religion. That's why the accepted and exalted high-road of motivation in any of these papers is a "quest," or an "open" orientation. And because we're a big bunch of quest-ers, and that's most likely why we're studying in this particular field, and adherents to this particular theory, they can get away with the bias because no one questions it.

No one asks, how will the conceptualizations, and uses of the theory change if Truth is assumed? If I design a study assuming doctrines, in place of dogmas, how will I think differently through the interpretative issues of my data? Others would accuse such a researcher of religious bias, but friends, the bias is there already. We might just as well do what science is supposed to do--shed light on the truth we can see, accept the flaws in our perception, and figure out how to minimize them so that we might see truth more clearly.

Perhaps that means assuming truth sometimes--daring to understand others as they actually are, and not as we'd like to imagine them. I think love just got more courageous.

question.

The stress of the possibility of the truth is overwhelming. Does that resonate with anyone?

doubleheader: damnation and depression.

Do you ever walk out of church, and think, "Wow, thanks for the bummer sermon, Pastor. Think I'll go look at pictures of unicorns and bunny-rabbits until I manage to restore my joy in life"?

After 45 soul-crushing minutes on the realities of hell, I was stuck in a spin cycle of demise. Actually, after about five minutes, I buckled the mental seat belt. In the first two minutes, he mentioned evangelism within the church, and I started trying to conjure a vodka tonic into my hand.

By the way, wouldn't it be great if church were held in a tropical pool with a swim-up bar?

By the back to what I was saying, that sermon was terrifying. Paired with tonight's sermon on depression, I'm concerned for my pastor. For his well-being. His state of mind, you know.

No, just kidding. Seriously, he seems fine. But what a double-header.

I wrote once that I wanted to be honest, even if doing so made me look foolish. I'm trying to figure this out, and in so doing, I'm going to be foolish at times. I'm going to make mistakes, and have to double-back, and correct my thinking. I think that's the nature of an honest hunt. And I don't want to hold back because I'm afraid that someone smarter than I am will read these words, and scoff. Even if it's someone I love, and respect, and want to think well of me. It's my journey, right? I get to own it the way it is, not the way that looks coolest. At least I'm real about it.

So... I've been shortchanging my examination of conservative Christianity out of a fear that to consider it honestly, to yield to truth where I find it, I'll be uncool, anti-intellectual, somehow less avant-garde. As though I am actually avant-garde. One Pollock poster does not a hipster make (it's been about 50 years since Pollock was avant-garde, anyway). Nevertheless, I have been empty and shallow in my reasoning. Clinging to a false sense of academic superiority, so that I don't have to make a choice. Not wanting to turn from either side, and actually believing that a choice for believing the scriptures would even cause me to have to turn from anyone.

I've said, I believe that Christ died, and rose again, and I am grateful for His atoning for my sins. Or at least, maybe those things are true, and anyway, I don't really understand what needed to be atoned for. But go Christ, right? He's still awesome.

That's a really convincing proposition, huh? Really powerful.

I've misunderstood the notion of faith. And been afraid to take on beliefs, not because I didn't agree with the evidence (I haven't been fair to the evidence), but because I didn't want to take them on. Didn't want to deal with them.

I thought I didn't care what people think, and that the beliefs of my more liberal Christian friends don't affecting me. But I do, and they do. I realize now that I've been acting as though my mind is somehow inferior to theirs. Like I haven't earned the right to come to conclusions different from theirs. Like somehow, my own processes would be faulty.

I don't think that's true. I don't want to act as though it is. It's bizarre, because usually, I sit in church reminding myself that I don't have to agree with this pastor. I tilt my chin up in defiance, and think, "I get to disagree! I'm smart enough to disagree!" Perhaps, now, it's time to do the same towards the others. I get to disagree. I get to trust my mind. And if that leads back in any way to what these people are saying, that's okay.

I sense a collision. I don't know if this is actually okay.

there's redemption in the offal.

Alcohol won't work. I tried alcohol in college. There's no lasting truth to be found in an altered state.

Anger is useless. With what or whom would I be angry? God? Myself? Unhelpful, both. Plus, anger is never the bottom of the emotion.

Books. The next book could have the answer.

At a healing service, my faith broke.

More truly, I broke. The me I was met the me I've been, and the one I am came out the other end. That sounds complicated, it's really not.

As I stood there, bracing myself for my first ever "healing service," I realized... this is insanity. All of this. This church, this belief, this expectation. It's all crazy. Which doesn't necessarily make it untrue, or unfeasible. The entirety of Madonna's career is also insanity, but someone thinks it's art. A lot of someones actually, have you seen her house?

But, it's still insanity. These people are staking their lives on one interpretation of an oft-times nonsensical set of beliefs, based on a collection of writings that have their own share of dubiousness. If I say that aloud to one of them, I'd likely get one of two responses: a proud, and matter-of-fact nod of affirmation, or a set of treatises on why the bible is sound.

Regardless, I stood there in the dimmed light of a church I love deeply, despite my many misgivings, and my heart shattered.

I feel so much pressure.

I can't say that I believe the bible is divinely-inspired and inerrant, because I don't. Which makes it impossible for me to say all sorts of other things. But I do love this church. I love this community. I love the possibility of a life that does believe all of those things.

But, to quote a little Hesse (from whom the title of this blog is swiped), I "cannot be both, and have both." I can't be the me who God made me, with all of the doubts, and questions, and the orientation towards openness, and also be one of these, the consummate church-goer, who is willing to say that I believe in scripture simply because I ought to.

Ultimately, I think that God is big enough for me. But is the church?

And, what do I say to the people around me? We all choose to believe something. Even an avoidance of that choice is a decision. My conservative Christian friends don't understand how a life without the biblical mandates is fully meaningful. My more liberal Christian friends insist that the conservatives are secretly unhappy, without the life of open exploration of ideas. I know that this is incredibly egocentric, but sometimes I feel as though everyone is watching, and everyone is judging. No matter which direction I go, somebody thinks I'm a fool.

I trust that God accepts my foolish attempts to find Him with a love I cannot understand.

the me or me to be.

Who am I?

I've been asking that question a lot lately. Asking my friends, and my self, and my God, and hoping that somehow, some collection of responses will gel into a vision, a face, or a solid. So far, no goods.

I used to have this really awesome and firm self. My friend Lauren says I still have it, I just need to rediscover it. To gain balance again.

The truth is, I like being a little off-balance. Not in a "oh ha ha, he he, this is so much fun," way, but in a "Dude, if I come out the other end of this alive down here, I will be in the 'center of God's will', as they say" kinda way. And that'll be good.

I've been changed. There's no way around that. There's no reason to try to find one. Uh oh, complete word-vomit honesty in 5..4..3..2..

These people have made me doubt the core of everything I am, in six months or less. Every strange thing has come to seem a little less strange (sometimes a lot less). Their love is cause for soul-crushing humility, in the inadequacy of my own ability to love across differences. Though my skepticism lives, it does in a tempered form, made softer by unimaginable grace, and openness.

I'm not me anymore. Or just not the 'me' who drove into town back in August.

I feel like one of those actresses with a one-in-five chance for the statue, histrionic, and babbling, "This is just SO unexpected." Seriously, what did I think would happen?

Not this. That's for sure. I can't explain this. There's no shortage of public and private documentation of my time here, and still...I don't understand it. I read back, and I ask myself, "Why did you go back?" Why did I decide to go that first Wednesday? And the second? And the third? When did I start taking these ideas seriously? What was happening when I was baptized? What is going on in my life?!?

I chose. And then I didn't. My writings, and my recollections, suggest that I never stopped doubting. I didn't suddenly lose my skepticism, and though I willingly gave up objectivity, I gave it up in service to honest intellectualism. All of this--it would not have been my choice. I feel the tension between the direction I would have taken, and the direction I have taken, near constantly with my friends. And yet, I wasn't brainwashed. I don't feel ill-prepared to face questioning friends, and I haven't lost touch with the big, bad world. I am wholly me, and also wholly something else.

What does that mean? Anyone?

love expansion.

I had a good day. Not just a good day--a fabulous day. The kind of day that makes you smile for hours.

What made it great? I don't know-- a good friend, a fantastic pear cider, a fun restaurant, and sweet, sweet sunshine, and a neuroscience talk. Without doubt, it will get better in dinner and coffee with a person who shows love like few people I've ever met.

So...is God good? Or are those things good?

If you're a Christian down here, that sounds like a silly question. If you're a non-Christian, it also sounds silly. There must be some tension.

This post is not a part of What the what?!? Week. Just a short rambling about something interesting happening in my life.

Good things are afoot. Some of them I've worked for. Some of them seem to be falling into my lap. But all of them have me grateful. Intensely grateful. It's more than joy. I stop what I'm doing, and I lift my face to God, and I think, "Father, You are so good. Thank you. Thank you." In His love, all good things are distilled to their simplest reality. Pear cider, and classmates, and neuroscience become means through which we are delighted, and He is glorified (to steal an idea from Piper).

I feel gratitude to God, and I believe that that pleases Him, but I also think He is giving me something to give. His love is endless. And He speaks to me that from that store, so should my own love be endless. Amen?

Just kidding about that amen, but how amazing is that? How exciting.

I don't know if you've noticed this, but when I read back into previous posts, I find an odd pattern (one I hadn't really caught on to in real time). When I've ended a post in sadness, or confusion, or prayer--there soon follows another post in which God has clearly addressed some lack of wisdom or understanding.

And so earlier this week, I asked for God to be God. And slowly, I am realizing that He is in fact God. He is being God. He has been God. All the time, actually. And as I allow Him to be God in praise, my heart expands with Love.

Amen.