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.