i am a c.

Let me share with you all a little something I learned tonight. It goes like this:

I am a C! I am a C-H! I am a C-H-R-I-S-T-I-A-N! I have C-H-R-I-S-T in my H-E-A-R-T, and I will L-I-V-E-E-T-E-R-N-A-L-L-Y!

Faster now!!

I am a C! I am a ....!

Yeah. Dee-lightful. I'm not gonna lie--on the way home, I'm kinda glad that the kid got fussy every time the song changed, forcing us to shout, spell, and repeat. Saved me the trouble, and the embarrassment of asking for multiple iterations of a song written for 5-10 year-olds.

Sometimes, being the new kid stinks. It's as though all of these people have a secret club full of stories and songs I've never heard. Then again, sometimes, as tonight, being the new kid is A-OK.

I get to giggle, and shout out lyrics like a child, enjoying them as an adult. Knowing to savor them. Knowing just how much He delights in me delighting in Him.

My faith can be very serious. I write these serious posts. I read these serious books. And have these serious conversations. I feel the weight of a serious God. I think serious thoughts. It's all very heavy now and again.

And that's fine, and that's good. I like that I understand that some things are real, and that they should be taken seriously. I like that I'm not "casual" about what I believe (even when I believed some very different things about Jesus), but have been committed to the idea that Truth matters. I like that I've never thought church to be some panacea for life's ills, divorced from conviction. That's good. I like those things very much.

But. Tonight, I had fun, and that was also fine, and good, and necessary. I laughed like a child, and sang like a child, to a child's song. It was a wonderful moment with my Father.

I wonder what it would be like to grow up in the church. To know all of these songs. To know the ends to all of these tales of the Old Testament.

As I sang this little spelling song, I thought about how grateful I am for these moments. God, you are so good. This isn't how I imagined my life unfolding, but You are good.

I am in fact growing up in the Church.

i lean like a poser.

I had a more elaborate post written, but just cleared it. The simpler, the better.

I'm at Hebrew's, enjoying the illusion of being in the Chicago suburbs, and these men just walked in with their bibles.

I judge people who carry bibles. Let me re-phrase, I have in the past judged people who carry bibles.

I've seen them, and automatically thought "ppffff, posers." I know, right? In my own defense, I am an equal opportunity pharisee. I also label as posers people who carry copies of Camus' "The Stranger," and anything written by Sartre, and I have special venom for those who make Gertrude Stein references as though that's normal.

But-- if I carry existentialist lit, or talk expat poetry, it's because I'm uber-cool (a good indication of that is my use of the prefix "uber"--only really cool people do that). That is, I am the worst kind of snob.

I'm not writing this to roast myself, though. This really is about the bible trust over there.

I saw the first guy sit down with his bible, and, I'm not making this up to make myself look holy, I thought, "How awesome! I would love to go talk to that guy about his faith, and learn from him what his life in Christ has taught him." My actual thoughts were less wordy. More of a simple impulse. I've spelled out the sentiment for your benefit.

I am not always so charitable towards Christians. I still have a lot of bad habits, and old prejudices. There's one woman in my church who I am absolutely positive is a real-life poser. I know it because the first time I met her, she gave me a litany of how sought after her husband is in leadership circles. That kind of talk is the equivalent of ten copies of "The Stranger," all in a pile on the table next to an organic iced honey tea latte (which, by the way, is delicious).

(Dudes--a whole table of people just turned to stare at me. That was awkward. Turning off the headphones, but pretending like I still have music on....NOW. Oh, oh...somebody's friend just got certified as a "licensed spiritual healer"! This is hott. Can I just get up and join them? This is too much for me. I cannot pass up an opportunity to talk about religion. God, why do you do this to me?!? You know I need to go over there. They're like a magnet. Now they're onto sex predators and hypnosis. Some pastor got fired because they put his daughter under hypnosis and she said he sexually-abused her! Oh. my. word. Now they're talking about how spirits can make people say stuff they wouldn't otherwise say. I'm going in.)

(Ok, they're all super-nice. No one knows any one else, they're just here for a meetup.com gathering to get out and chat. They started talking about religion after seeing my book on the table--hence the group glance--but there are no set topics. I'm back at my own table because I could care less about the pizza-topping preferences of strangers.)

About Christians. My knee-jerk reaction is to judge. Even in church, in which I should expect to come full-frontal to oodles of them. I've lived for so long outside of His grace, and His love, that I have become wretchedly unable to give Grace and Love. Sure, I've loved those I like. But what kind of test is that? Everybody loves those they like.

But now, that's changing. Sometimes, without my explicit consideration, as with bible guy. Sometimes, with pain-stakingly painful effort, as with my church-y poser lady. But I like it. I think it's good.

After a phenomenal message last night, I leaned back in my chair (literally leaned, entrenching myself in my seat, so as to get as far away from the altar as possible, as is my custom when the altar is opened), contemplating prayer. No lie, wasn't feeling it. And then, God stepped in. I suddenly found my heart flooding with prayer, passionately (though silently) shouting out to Him, "Let me know You! Never leave me, I need You." And in that moment, my absolute and over-powering urgency for God made every difference, and every prejudice, and every judgment fall away. (I just looked up synonyms for need. None of them cut it. But you know what I'm saying, right? Need, urgency, yearning, longing, necessity, but to the millionth power--to your very core?)

It occurred to me that I don't care if you're a young-earth creationist, and I don't care if you read the bible and don't mean it, and I don't even care if you voted for George W. twice! I want God in my life so badly that I will put to the side every last thing that comes between Us and us, and I want Him for you, too.

That was so last night. That is so today. I pray that will be so tomorrow.

ramblings.

I think my friends, and professors would be horrified to know how deep I'm in at James River.

I don't care.

I came here, and my life was one way. I was one way. My future was one way.

But now, none of that holds. My life is different. I am different. My future is different.

Sometimes, I walk up to the church, and I think, "What?" I can smell that flowering lilac off to the right, and I glance up towards the flags, flapping in the wind, and I see the steeple, set pale green against the sky. As I pass, I remember the spot in the grass where I sat and prayed to God, so many months ago now, during DFL. And I think, "What? Really, Ash? A pentecostal megachurch?"

But we're past that.

When I first came down here, I was reading this book about the evangelical movement, and the predicted downfall of the modern megachurch. I remember thinking that those words--evangelical, "born again,"--were so other. Those were words for the people that went to James River, but not for me. Words for people who believed in the absolute power of Jesus Christ to save, and in the commission of that message.

I suppose, now, that I am both "born again," and "evangelical."

That's so weak. I am both born again, and evangelical.

God, why me? Why did you call me? These kinds of questions remind me of Moses, telling God that he doesn't speak well enough to say those lofty things to Pharaoh. I read about that today, in Exodus, and I wanted to shout at Moses, "You fool! That stick just changed into a snake before your eyes, and you're worried that He won't tell you what to say?"

Moses didn't seem to understand the full import of having been chosen by God. Lindell was fired up this morning about God's election, in a sermon I'm calling "God Chose You!: The Reprise!" That's right--it was part two of my favorite sermon. Only this time, God chose me! The last time I heard Lindell's words on the topic (live, anyway), I had been chosen of course, but, like Moses, I didn't get it. I hadn't stepped fully into His power. I hadn't accepted His call.

It occurred to me this morning that the mystery and miracle that is His election is...it's unfathomable. The only response is worship. I looked out across the crowd, and imagined an auditorium of people, each falling to his or her knees, arms aloft, shouting of His mercy, and His outrageous love.

I'm not who I was. And I'm not entirely sure who I am becoming. But I do trust that however strange this all looks to me, God has it. He's got it. Or as Lindell put it, in "God Chose you!" 1.0: "Tonight, you may not understand what is going on in your life, but that doesn't mean that God is not in control."

He's right. I don't understand it. Nor do I need to.

you grasp me?

I have a problem. An Old Testament problem.

The stuff is like crack cocaine. Or Lay's. Betcha can't read just one page.

I love being delighted by the narrative. I love how, with each page, the dots are connecting. "Oh, so that's how they ended up in Egypt," or "That's what led up to the Babylonian captivity." I love the excitement from page to page--will Isaac realize that it's not Esau he's blessing, but Jacob? And what will happen to Esau?

But, I really love these sudden moments of beauty that happen in the Old Testament. Buried in a detail, you'll suddenly come to face with the God of the ages. My God. The one I worship, and love, and submit to. And the sheer hugeness of time sweeps me, as I realize that God knew of me even as He was speaking to Abraham, and Isaac, and Jacob, and Joseph and Moses. And He has known all of us since long before then. Known, and loved. Sit in that for a minute.

I was reading in Genesis earlier, about Lot. So the Angels tell him to get on up out of there, and he tells some of his family, and they think he's joking. Then the Angels get on him. They tell him to hurry himself up, or he's toast. But Lot seems freaked out, he hesitates. And, "...the men grasped his hand and the hands of his wife and of his two daughters and led them safely out of the city for the Lord was merciful to them."

If that doesn't get to you, you might be taking all of this for granted. Read it again.

"When he hesitated, the men GRASPED HIS HAND and the hands of his two daughters and led them safely out of the city, for the Lord was merciful to them."

God doesn't just prompt him, or give him a little nudge, or stand off to the side saying, "maybe you oughta kinda, sorta, sometime soon, perhaps, if you think about it...get out of here before I rain down sulfurous fire." He takes Lot by the hand. He physically pulls him away from destruction. He guides him to safety.

Sometimes, I think that we frustrate ourselves with questions of really understanding, of "feeling" God's plan for our lives, or wanting to hear him speak into our hearts. I do, anyway. But, though I have never felt God's hand in mine, or heard Him speak audibly, His presence in my life has been no less real, and no less obvious. He stands at our hearts, and He shouts. He reaches out, and He takes my hand. And hand in hand, we walk away from the fire.

Also...He is merciful to us. I like that Genesis recounts how God's Angels led Lot and his family out of the city, not because Lot was owed something by God, or "deserved" it, in a sense, but because doing so was a display of His tremendous mercy.

He takes my hand, in mercy and in love.

fool for You.

I made it through the rest of 2 Samuel today, and I think I love David so much because reading about his life is a little like watching an episode of Family Guy. Every few pages, he breaks out in song. I respect that kind of musicality. The rest of it is nothing like Family Guy. At all. But, as God is a better story-teller than Seth McFarlane, I'll stick in.

Also every few pages, I have a new favorite story, or person of the Old Testament. Again, I'm probably wrong about most of them. Firstly, these people flip-flop like John Kerry in '04. You never quite know who's going to end up repentant. And sometimes, stuff that I thought happened one way, happened a whole other way--I just don't know enough of the context. Finally, there are like fifty-millionty of these peeps. And they share names, crazy-style, like "Ashley" in 1985. Having said that, my prospective first-born should be glad that I'm not going through this OT mania during pregnancy. Because every couple of pages, I'm thinking something like, "Abiathar! Now that'd be an interesting name..."

But I like David just fine. He ticked me off in that business with Bathsheba, but he probably tore his robes and put dust on his head, so we're cool again. I love how freely he worships. He's not afraid to sing aloud, or to dance in the streets, in praise of God. That's incredible. I think I'm making a good Sunday if I can actually hear myself singing--let alone singing loud enough for anyone else to hear. And this fool is out there break-dancing unto the Lord on a dusty road to Jerusalem.

I was reading today about how God struck down Uzzah for touching the ark. David kinda freaks, and refuses to take the ark back to Jerusalem, giving it instead to a Gittite. The Gittite's house gets blessed wildly, so David decides to horn in on the action, and moves the ark to a tent in his city, dancing all the way. The interesting part to me is the exchange between Michal and David. She basically thinks he's a lewd idiot, and tells him so, and he says: "I will celebrate before the Lord. I will become even more undignified than this, and I will be humiliated in my own eyes."

Two things. Firstly, David Crowder is a poser. He totally ripped that line. Great song, though, and now that I understand the reference, the song makes so much more sense. Secondly, King David puts his moxie where his mouth is. He, unlike Crowder, is no poser. Again, and again, he breaks out into this obliviously joyful praise to God. And I am so, so jealous of that.

So much of the time, I feel joy, and I keep it to myself. I constrain it, silently praising. Saying, in my heart, "Father, you know." Of course, He does know. But I wonder if sometimes, He'd like me to show Him anyway, for both our sakes. I wonder if in the act of praising joyously, my joy, and His glory, are both intensified. To say nothing of the encouragement to others.

So much of the time, I want to raise my hands in worship. I sing, and praise, and pray, and I feel inside that the natural response to His power is in fact this gesture of submission and thankfulness. A gesture so foreign to me. So I keep my hands where they are, worried about what the people around me will think. Though, by the way, I more likely stick out for not responding, in that crowd. I'm just so painfully self-conscious. I want to smile, to sing aloud, to pray aloud, to erase all the people around me, and meet my Lord. But I can't, not in church. David doesn't have that problem.

He has this unshakable sense of God's sovereignty and goodness, and his praise just then spills out of him in unstoppable torrents of joy and wonder, and thankfulness.

I want that.

constant retainer.

I'm in a faith panic. Generally that involves me pacing to and fro, muttering to myself, "I can't do this, I cannot do this," trying to break through an impenetrable wall of doubt.

Tonight, I'm going to do myself a favor. I am scared that I am becoming judgmental. And I worry about what will happen to my relationships as I figure out how to be myself in those that were based on a different self. And I don't know what to do about the love. I don't really know how to love in the way I'm called to. I don't think I can. I'm very opinionated. Very, very opinionated. If you tell me what you had for breakfast, I can find something to say about it. Trust me.

But I'm going to do the favor. I'm putting all of that down. And lifting up my heart to worship Him, and His word, and who He is.

I'm in 2 Samuel now, and I have a bit of a crush on Jonathan. I was upset when He got killed off in battle, no lie. But I'm crushing on him because he's tender, and he seems to speak good sense, and he's brave. Even after his Dad tries to snuff him in that incident with the honey, he continues to stand up in ways he knows will only bring him trouble. He respects the presence of the Lord.

That's what I love most about his conversations with David. They both recognize that the presence of God binds their words, and agreements. That God sees all, and knows all, and expects us to honor what we say and do down here on earth.

As I read, I think first that I need to be better about keeping my word. But then, that God is a God of details. Sometimes, I think that God doesn't care so much about all of the moments of my days. That He's not "there." But then, David and Jonathan are talking, and it's clear that they fully expect that God is there in every moment. They don't start their oaths by asking God to come close, and then giving him a minute. They just make the oath under God. God is not on retainer, He's full-time management.

He knows the things I do that should bring rebuke. And those that bring joy. And every moment in between. Because He's here. As with Jonathan and David's oaths, so is He here to witness to my life. And with all of the things He has witnessed, He loves me still.

Remarkable.

For the record, everyone knows that Honey Nut Cheerios are the superior Cheerios.

weep.

I'm sorry. I really am.

See, I have discovered the Old Testament. Or you would think so from listening to me talk about it. Last week, when the story first broke, I got on the phone with my Dad, like, "Man, did you know about this? This is wiggedy-wackety!" (That's a slight paraphrase.) Or gmail-chatting my friends, saying things like "Dude, I know that you don't crack a bible, but you have got to check this out. The stuff that goes on is craz-ay." (Not at all a paraphrase).

So, I am sorry because if you know the Old Testament, you're going to have to sit tight through some posts about stuff that might not be exciting to you. You know the stories. You know how they end. I pray, though, that my extreme enthusiasm for this new venture stirs something in you. That, though you already know, as I didn't, why people are a bunch of Jezebel haters, or what Esther's deal was, you'll catch my fever. That you'll feel a sort of giddy fascination at the prospect of the gift of reading His Word.

Having said that, let's talk second favorite story: Josiah.

The greatest thing about the Old Testament thus far has been the details. They jump at you, shouting some truth or other, demanding that you rejoice in closeness to Him. In the details, I find my own experiences, echoing forward through millennia, reminding me that my God is One over time, and over place, and over all of the constructs that we create to convince ourselves that we are different.

In 2 Kings, the detail is this one: "...and because you tore your robes and wept in my presence, I have heard you..."

Josiah sends his boys out to take care of some temple business, and in the process, they find The Book of the Law, which they bring back to Josiah to read to him. Josiah gets jacked up over it. He realizes straight away that his people, um, well, haven't been so lawful. So he sends the posse to a prophetess who says: word to your mother--God is ticked, and He's gonna wipe Judah, but because your king is repentant, He'll spare him from having to see the whole nine yards. So Josiah cleans. up. He doesn't just hear the Law, he calls everyone, top to bottom, and reads it to them too, and has them all pledge to stop being heathens. Then the dude goes all out medieval up in there. He purges his territory of every vestige of unlawful worship, slaughtering priests, and burning idols, and doing all sorts of groovy stuff that Quentin Tarantino could make one heck of a movie from. It's intense.

Tucked there in the middle, though, is my detail. "...because you tore your robes, and wept in my presence, I have heard you..." The Lord hears Josiah. Josiah weeps. God hears. Josiah weeps. God hears. Incredible.

Reading these words, and seeing how Josiah's heart was moved by knowing how his people had spurned God, I think about my own encounter with God. And I remember that the time in which I was closest to God, the moment in which He most fully revealed His love to me, was that in which I had allowed myself to be most broken in repentance.

These days, we have a funny sort of connotation with the word "repentance." At least in the secular, liberal culture from which I come. Repentance has to do with canvas tents in Mississippi fields, and money-hungry preachers shouting at the top of their lungs, and hate-mongering, and ignorance, and defenseless kinds of faith that always end up on the news in the quake of a tornado.

That's a sad turn. I don't have anything clever to say about repentance. I don't know why people misunderstand it, or what to do about it. But, I will say, I would be broken ten thousand times over if only to have one more moment like that I spent with Him in love.

Sometimes, I think I don't really get the big picture of sin. I'm so caught up in what a funny little word it is, and how odd it sounds to my friends to talk of "sin," and so busy coming up with more pleasant-sounding euphemisms and explanations, that I miss the call to repent. I ignore the effects of my sin upon my relationship with Him--how it destroys my heart, and pulls me from His presence. I rarely weep, because I rarely see. Or worse, I see a little, but not all, and I toss off an apology to God, as though a tossed-off apology is what He asks of me.

I wonder if I would be one of those kings of Judah who did alright in the eyes of the Lord, but left up the high places. I think I'd rather be one like Josiah, who destroyed the unlawful, and lives in repentance to Him.

Hear me, Father. Bring my heart to weeping, for myself and the world around me, that I might come closer to you.

we don't have a king; we have The King.

It's 2am, and I can't sleep. So I'll tell you about how I've gotten really into the Old Testament recently, and I have a new favorite Bible story.

I've gotten really into the Old Testament recently, and I have a new favorite Bible story.

Caution: I know next-to-nothing about the Old Testament, and don't really understand a lot of what I'm reading, so it's likely that my interpretation of my new favorite story is totally off, the bad guys will end up being good guys, and the good guys bad, and at any rate, I haven't read the end of the story yet, so I can only kind of guess what happens. (As an aside, one of the embarrassing, but delightful aspects of having been an Old Testament slacker is that I don't know the end of the stories. So not only do I get to get to know God better--there's suspense! I have a rough knowledge of the readership of this blog, and I don't think you all have had suspense in these stories for many moons--feel free to live vicariously through my excitement.)

So it's like this: I am fascinated that in 1 Samuel the Israelites ask for a king.

Samuel has been chilling amongst them for some time, proving himself wise, and awesome. They've got the ark back, so they have that going for them. And, after Samuel told them to worship the Lord, their God, and He'd take care of the Philistines, He totally delivered. Life is good, right?

But the Israelites, who, frankly, seem to be learning-impaired throughout much of the Old Testament, tell Samuel that they want a king, "as all the other nations have." As though to say, "All of this that we've seen our God do, all that should convince us that we need trust and follow only Him, means nothing to us." They need something else. Someone else.

God tells Samuel to tell them all the terrible noise that will happen to them if they persist in wanting a king. They don't care. So God basically says, "Fine, you make the bed, you lie in it--give 'em a king."

I haven't read the next chapter yet, so if you see/meet me, don't tell me what happens.

But I wonder how often I act like this. How often, and across how many sectors of my life, am I learning-impaired with regards to God's absolute power, and His grace? The Israelites asked for a king as others had, it seems, to establish a validity and stability they thought they lacked. In what ways am I wanting a king? Maybe even asking God for one? Do I make prayers that sometimes parallel the Israelites asking for a king?

Were I to lose everything tomorrow, my apartment, and my car, and my friends, and family, and educational credentials, and health, and maybe even sanity or emotional stability--I'd still have the one thing I need. And yet, today, surrounded by all of those blessings, having seen Him hold off my enemies, and restore relationships and opportunities, I look for a king. I say, "You're not enough. I want a king, like others have." My kings take many forms. Maybe I look for a king when I seek excessive financial stability rather than giving sacrificially. Or when I form too much of an attachment to a particular long-term career plan, rather than inviting God in to send me as He would. Or when I hold back on loving radically, unsure that God will fill my heart.

What are my kings? What are yours?

I hope this makes sense in the morning.

on before me.

I am ashamed. I'm not kidding.

Sometimes, I don't know how much is too much on this blog, and I find myself admitting things I maybe shouldn't. But I do believe, in some corner of my heart, that my experiences might provide encouragement or vision to someone in a similar, or entirely different, situation. Thus, I'm all about honesty. Or, I try to be all about honesty--with God, with myself, and with anyone who cares to read.

So, I am ashamed.

I can't get my fingers to type the words, so I'll just shoot them out all in a rush: Iprayedtoprayinthespirit.

Wince. Ouch. It looks worse in print than it does in my head. That's it. This is the beginning of the end. My delightful quirkiness is passing into all-out weirdness in front of your very eyes. Oy, I pray to God that any non-pentecostal friends reading this get struck blind. Just for a second. Maybe just over this post.

I'd like to say that I prayed in a sort of non-committal way, you know, out of intellectual interest, or "gee whiz, that'd be somethin' new!" -- Not true. Just not true. I prayed passionately, and wholly, and somewhat desperately, to .. you know. I'm not gonna type it again.

It's like this: Wednesday night's message was difficult. The pastor preached on the boldness of asking for the big and small, and believing in a sure response. I just can't fall in with that. Not that I think we shouldn't ask, but God isn't a vending machine. Sometimes He'll make your car start, and sometimes He Won't, and sometimes the car was going to start anyway, and that's just all a mystery.

So as I'm in this service, I feel my blood start to boil. I'm getting angry! But I really don't know why. I disagree. Done. What's to get angry about? Then, we pray in small groups, and my anger is unfathomable. I'm cursing in prayer! (In my head.) And I hear myself silently shout to God, "Fine! You want to be a God who answers prayer? Send a message. Let someone speak a message into the room right now, WITH an interpretation, please." And I latch onto this prayer as though my very life depends on it, knowing full well that to make a demand of God is ridiculous. It's worse than ridiculous, but let's not get into that here.

Then, in seconds, I pass into worship. I'm standing there, angry, and somehow hurt, and more than little annoyed, and wondering if I should just walk out, but how weird that will be to the people around me, and I'm past the point of being able to pull crap like that, and I just ask myself... "If no one speaks in tongues, if no prophesy comes into the room tonight, does that make God any less God, or good?" Of course not. "Is He still God?" Yes. "Is He still unfathomably kind?" Yes. "Does He still love you outrageously?" Yes. "And you Him?" Yes. Then worship. He is big enough to handle your anger, and confusion, and hurt. But whatever you ask for ought to be asked in love, and with an acute sense of His sovereignty. Go then, and ask for what you need, not what you want merely to satisfy some whim of anger.

So I worshiped. My anger fell into a broken heart. A confused heart. And I left feeling a little alone, and a lot uncertain. And on the way home, I prayed to pray differently. To connect with God in a way I had not. To feel His spirit in a way I have not.

The prayer felt natural in the moment. I was in crisis. To pray for more of God, and a deeper well of Spirit felt right. But I am completely aware of how "out there" the request was. How much of a drawn line it really is.

I have a feeling that it would be the last straw in my supposed sanity, for secular friends. I can check out a Pentecostal church, and even begin attending one. I can have Pentecostal friends, as long as I can still see the things that are weird about them. The womens' conference was pushing it. My using the phrase "Oh my word," accidentally has established some incredulity. But anything about tongues, particularly mine, would probably call down a full-blown intervention.

For the record, both prayers (for the message, and the tongues) went unanswered. And His sovereignty, and His grace, and His love still go on before me.

best of April-halfsies.

More of my favorite tweets from the last few weeks:

-NYTimes article: what makes people happiest (ie: my getting Debbie is equal to at least $100k! So true! http://nyti.ms/bDXxiR(via John Lindell).

-Have you noticed that everyone for abortion is already born? (via Rick Warren).

-BREAKING NEWS--God besieged with angry emails after inviting @RickWarren to heaven. (via @xianity) (via Darrin Patrick, the lead pastor at my favorite church in the world, The Journey in St. Louis).

-A great morning with the President. He could easily have been a preacher. http://twitpic.com/1dn9mr (via Don Miller).

-Humility is seen in how quickly we admit own faults & how quickly we overlook & forgive other's faults. (via Rick Warren).

-Everyone desires 2 b where they r celebrated and not tolerated..Take time 2 celebrate someone 2day. We all need 2 know we r loved and cared4 (via Nancy Alcorn).

-There's a big difference between worshipping with your gift and worshipping your gift. (How writers & pastors get lost) (via Jon Acuff, of the Stuff Christians Like blog).

-Love that is patient & kind, love that keeps no record of wrongs, that believes the best about others. This is love that changes people. (via Joel Osteen).

-The HAND of God is on you - the SPIRIT of God is in you - the GRACE of God is with you - the CALL of God is for you! (via Brian Houston).

Happy Wednesday! Enjoy!

left left left right left.

Just in case you are either not Facebook friends with me, or don't care to follow, with meticulous care, every nuance of my i-dentity, let me say this.

Earlier today, my "political views" read: Liberal.

Now, they read: "Moderate."

I know, I know. Deep breaths. Pinch yourself, check the URL to see if you're on the right blog, log into The Huffington Post to make sure they're still a bunch of (brilliant) liberal hippies. But know that this is real. And remember, the political realities are really the greater realities...

I tease, I tease.

One of the most interesting, and jarring, lessons I've learned from Southern Missouri has been that the Left is not right. Can I get an amen on that? I'll bet I can.

Not that the Left is wrong, either. And not that the Right is necessarily right. Or wrong. (This post is about one wrong turn from being a religiously-themed Abbott and Costello parody.) But I came here with a passionate belief in all things "liberal," and little discrimination. There are causes that I knew virtually nothing about, but would support fervently in discussion because I understood that the issue somehow swam with a general constellation of beliefs I had picked up in college. I was a liberal by identity. I suppose that, compared to the Young Republicans' Club circles I run in here, I still am.

And, an important caveat of that is that I still am a liberal on the counts of many issues. I believe strongly in the distinction between what we hold to be truths, and the ways in which we ought to go about living those truths in the political arena.

Having said that, I still remember one of the first things I was really shocked by when I moved here, and began to mingle in the Christian Right. I would call my friends from home, and say "Guys, these people are NOT what they're made out to be in our liberal circles. They are smart. And, right or wrong, they are kicking my a** in any and all political and religious discussion." It's funny to remember that, because, firstly, I don't swear that much anymore. Secondly, I now know and love many of those people, and the church. And thirdly, it's sooooooo arrogant. So arrogant that if it offends you, I apologize, and ask you to remember that I'm writing in retrospect. Also, that the culture in which I was educated viewed Christianity and conservatism in a way that most Christian conservatives I've met here might not understand. The venom would be painful, and confusing.

I tell about that to underscore the fact that I believed so strongly in this one idealism of "liberal," that it has been difficult to disentangle that elusive, and sort of catch-all category from my identity. Even as I realize that I don't agree with so much of what is generally meant when someone uses the term. It is an odd exercise to walk through the Facebook profiles of my college friends and acquaintances, and realize, "No, now THOSE people are liberals." In comparison, I'm the new Sarah Palin. Yeah, I did just say that.

Living here, and loving amongst the Right, and thinking about the realities of God, and absolutist morality has caused some revision in both the person I am "out there," and the one I am up close. I've had to question myself in new ways, and on new grounds. Once revised, I've had to decide when to go public with the changes, and when to hang back and keep them quietly. It may sound strange the way I describe it, but we all do this all the time, in a sense.

Yet, I've had trouble knowing when to say when. Thus, the deconstruction of my "liberal identity." The question "Who am I?" has a new answer, and though I still hold some "liberal" beliefs, I'm not that same kid in college, fighting against "the man." All at once, the world is much simpler, and fantastically more complicated. Though one word won't ever hold all of me, the one word "liberal" seems particularly inadequate, and now, downright misleading.

Thus, the Facebook profile change (and doesn't it say something else entirely that our Facebook personas are such potent fronts to our identities?). I've worried that someone will notice the new designation (so I wrote a public blog post about it, to keep it quiet), and make a fuss. But then I saw that one of my closest friends, an insanely good-looking and intelligent gay man, had tagged himself as a "moderate," and I thought, "well, crap, if the gay guy can do it..."

So, friends, today I am a moderate. Because I'm right-er than the left, and left-er than the right, and letting go of the parts that had been leading me askance.

the head things and the heart things.

Someone once told me that he thinks that more often than God laughing at me (perhaps, with me, at times), He is cheering for me. And I love that. What a great idea. That God gave me this cheekiness, and sometimes quirky sense of humor, and brazenness, and that He cheers me on.

Do you think that God is like an earthly father in that He's proud of us? That is, do you think that God is proud of me?

I'm exploring this whole notion of God as the Father. I generally focus so heavily on His power as the Creator of all of this, that I think I miss the nuances of His love. There's a reason for that. I understand the logic of God first and foremost through the existence of the world, and so, God as Creator is the ground-zero of my faith. Everything else follows.

But now, those head things are set alongside the heart things. I don't need the repetition of the intellectual arguments, as I come to experience the proof of their truth. Much as my mentor telling me that his greatest arguments for God have come from his finding Christ in life, so too, I find Christ in my life. Thus, I can explore.

The idea of God as my ultimate Father does something funny to my heart. A flutter. Warmth. I feel tears come quickly. A smile lights my lips, and the sensations of gratefulness, and astounding safety rise simultaneously. If you've been so long with Him that you've forgotten, I pray it all comes back to you. If you've never known, I pray you will.

to laugh and to cry.

The Wednesday Night Prayer Meeting message was on tongues, and those pentecostals were riled up. I'm only going to say one thing about it: Barack Obama could have gotten an "Amen" up in that place tonight.

But about fitting in.

I'm in this really weird place now, where I still see things as an outsider, but feel them as an insider. So I know what will hit my secular friends in a peculiar way, but I don't feel particularly peculiar any longer. So, I ask myself, how do I write about all of this? How do I call out what's funny, and different about this culture, without being insulting to the people of this culture whom I am coming to care for so deeply? I also ask myself, how do I deal with the things that aren't funny? How will I walk the line between my past, and my future, knowing when to laugh, and when to cry?

I was talking to a close friend of mine from Chicago a couple of days ago, and we started reminiscing about college days, and in about 5.7 seconds, I found myself smack-dab in the middle of the most uncomfortable memory. Stuff that was once funny is no longer very funny to me. Frankly, it's just embarrassing. She's going on, and I'm thinking, "I did what?" It's still hilarious to some of my friends, though, and I'm not sure how to act. Do I laugh along? Do I Debbie-Downer it, and say something like "Dude, that stuff's just not cool anymore"? Do I just say something really awkward to change the subject, maybe, "Have you ever heard of Agnes Ozman?"

What happened is what happened, and it led me to here. I don't hang myself for it any longer. God and I have convened. It's done. But the memories still exist. And they are tied up in my relationships. That's an interesting mine field. And one to be walked with Love. With a wisdom I am just now realizing I need.

I want to say that I don't know how I'm going to swing this. That I'm nervous, or worried, or concerned that I can't handle this. That'd be a lie. I am confident that the same love that saved me, will guide me. I trust that His spirit lives in me. My walk won't be perfect, but We're going to do this.

And a second thing about tongues. I feel as though I am expected to fill this role of being utterly shocked by them. So I continue to act utterly shocked. My fault, no one else's. But I'm going to put an end to that, and I'm asking for your help. I think that the practice is biblical, and somewhat miraculous, and wholly acceptable. I am thrilled by the possibility that their interpretation offers a means through which God can speak to His modern-day church. Though I still find them jarring to my ears, and I do not expect that I will be so gifted any time in the near future, they're not strange, or funny, or stupid, or crazy. I'm getting on with it. Please help me.

the deep end.

My leg hurts. Like, really bad. Because I took a dive into the gravel outside someone's house tonight. A house chock full of Christians.

I'm having an identity crisis.

I don't even know where or how to start to explain, so let me set the scene. We're all playing Catch Phrase after Easter dinner. A friend of mine is up: "Ok, two words, first word--what convinced Eve to eat the apple in the garden of Eden." Crowd shouts snake. Her again: "Second word--Get out of that...! Come on! Get out out of that...!" Someone finally shouts "pit!" eliciting a chorus of "That'll preach!" and "Good word!" All in good humor, by the way. These people are not the caricatures that have been made of them. But the references are there, and so so different from anything I'd encounter with my other friends.

Conversations are peppered with phrases like "Praise God!" and "...if that's what the Lord wants for me..." Sometimes, as in the two previous phrases, they're serious. Other times (like with the snake pit preaching), there's a sort of group-deprecating good humor to the religious language, as when, asked the whereabouts of someone, a girl quipped, "He's taking quiet time with Jesus out in the field."

They are modern, and funny, and smart, and wonderful. And, in the same breath, entirely similar and entirely different from the rest of my friends.

As I sat there, still in the glow of an incredible Easter weekend, I felt all of these emotions jumbling up inside of me. Most of all, fear.

I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be in a Christian community. There are a bunch of books about Christianity--proofs for faith, and how to get faith, and why you should have faith. But none about what to do once you have it. About how to weather the part where you suddenly find yourself at Easter dinner with twenty Christians, and many looming questions: How do I fit into all of this? Can I fit into all of this? How will I live in two worlds?

See, up to this point, I've been dabbling. I have thought of myself as more of a spectator in the church, than a player. I have even seen myself as an outsider to my friendships in the church. As though I've just been watching. Playing along.

And then this week, something broke, and faith became real, and now things are turned a little sideways. I first realized on Wednesday that James River felt like home, felt like mine. I'm no longer just this visitor passing through. I'm worshiping with my family. And when I talk and laugh and eat with people as I did tonight, I'm no longer the seeking outsider. These people are my family. And they are kind, and they are wonderful, and they love God. And I don't know what to do with that.

I sat with them, silently praying, "God, it's too much. I need you to slow down. Please, take it easy on me. I don't know how to do this."

I wondered, am I good enough for this? Am I too sarcastic? Have I experienced too much? Can I fit in to this? And what about the rest of my life? How will I blend my life with my non-Christian friends, with my new life in the church, while being wholly honest in both worlds? How will I deal with questions about decisions I'm making based on faith? And convince my "secular" friends that my IQ hasn't taken a hit? Deep breath.

This...all of this... it isn't how I envisioned my life. If you had told me eight months ago that I'd come to love a megachurch (a frigging pentecostal megachurch), and God, and His people, I'd have blown you off completely. Or, actually, probably made you sit through a loooooong diatribe about how megachurches are ruining Christianity, and God is a relative concept, and most Christians are buzzkills.

Deep breath.

indeed!

Good Friday was in fact good. Better than good.

If you weren't at JRA for the noon service, you missed. You missed big. Like, you were alive in 1908 and turned down a pair of Cubs tickets, BIG.

The music was gorgeous, and the lighting was beautiful, and the words were perfect, and God was so there. And as I stood in worship, my heart turned. And the world filled with love. And God overtook me. And that's a lot of "ands," but there's more.

As John talked about the crucifixion, my heart sank. It broke. I broke. I'm no stranger to the story of the crucifixion. I saw that terrible Mel Gibson film. But today, the juxtaposition of the love of Christ, with the blood of the cross rammed into me with breathtaking force.

I kept asking Him, "You love me that much? You love me that much?" And the realization of the Truth came to me, in tears, and brought me to worship.

The reality of God walking amongst us is epic. But the reality of Him dying for us is... unspeakable. And yet.

I know that this is totally old hat for most of the people who read this blog, but I'm going to revel in it like it's the newest, and most amazing thing, because it is. To me. The realization of His love, and the hurt of His death gave way, as I sang, to the joy of Easter, of the Resurrection. Suddenly, and for the first time, I came to see why we celebrate. Through the tears, and the figuring out what the heck is going on in my heart, I felt joy. We were in darkness. But now in light. And come Sunday morning, we will celebrate giddily, as though to say "This heaviness that I feel now, the tears that course my face, will all vanish as He lives."

He is risen, indeed!

lyrical love.

In awe and wonder I surrender to you, my God, my Lord, my King.

covered by grace.

I am wildly blessed.

And emotionally exhausted.

I moved this week, for the third time in seven months. I brought my roommate and her wedding dress to the airport today, and as I walked back through the terminal I got broadsided by a whole lot of something I don't understand.

I'll miss her, yes. But it was more than that. Thinking about who I was when I moved in with her, and who I am now, and about how I used to spurn this culture, and now I am feeling more at home in it, and about accepting Christ, and actually having Christian friends, and being willing to lay my life to the side to love Him, and the possibility of a future that is always marked by this time...

I cried all the way home.

And it felt weird. I felt like I was feeling with a part of my heart I hadn't known was there. The pain was different than any I've known. So with the joy. It was full. Somehow.

My heart is softer than it was. At first, it was softer because of the love I was shown by the people at James River. Now, it is not only their love that moves me, but His. Though I struggle to understand it.

In earnestness, I ask myself often, how do I love like these people? It's special, it really is. They deflect when I say this, but I have walked into and out of so many churches, and seldom felt the kind of love I feel from this church. For the first few weeks I attended, I didn't walk out of a service without a stranger giving me a phone number or email address. I remember after DFL feeling as though I had been cared for by strangers the entire time. Women asked me to eat with them, dragged me down the aisle to the "best" seats, introduced me to their friends. I felt so cared for. So loved.

I am changed by His love through them.

Maybe it's not fashionable, or particularly cool, or intellectual, or rational, to claim that. But I will because it's true.

Walking out of the airport, I cried because I'll miss my roommate. But also because I was one person, and that person was good, and fine, and smart. But now I'm this other person, and she is covered by grace. His, and theirs. She is redeemed.