reality check.

I'm so completely taken with His power. With the absolute reality of God.

Sometimes, my thoughts about God can be a little...academic. I believe in Him. I love Him. But I don't think I always fully understand Him. (Who does?)

So last week was really something else.

I talked to a stranger about Christ. And afterward it occurred to me--she was so perfectly pitched to my area of knowledge, and heart. Even if I'd doubted the voice that told me to speak to her, even if I'd said that I was just imagining that, making it up, I couldn't have made up how incredible it was that I'm exactly the kind of person to whom she would listen. And I just happened to be sitting there. And because I listened to that possibly-imagined voice, we had a conversation that she might never have otherwise had.

In that moment of realization, I shook, quite literally. Because I realized that God is real. Friends, He doesn't need my weak academic arguments, and logical proofs. He is real, and terrifyingly powerful, and surely, my sins are forgiven.

He's real.

Sometimes, I start to worry that my prayers are in vain. That I'm just playing make-believe in church. Doing whatever I can to make the world seem more comfortable.

But last week, I prayed for a book, on the heels of a weekend that left my faith rocked and uncertain, and I got a book about people of faith coming from my hometown, actually coming through the church at which I first learned of Christ. I know that sounds silly, but when I realized, when it occurred to me that this book was more than just something interesting--I dropped it. Like a hot potato. Because what are the chances? Because I don't physically hear the voice of God, but when I see Him working so specifically, so close to me...I'm terrified. God is real.

I see things like that, and I think that nothing is impossible. That this is all real. That what these people are saying is true. That I have nothing to fear. Because He is real.

If He weren't real, it would foolish to go to seminary. To give generously. To pray ardently. To love lavishly. To live in discipline. But since He is real, I've seen it now, those things not only live far from foolishness, but very, very close to necessity.

He's real.

Thank You.

I have three minutes before my family comes in to whisk me away to the crazy.

No time for eloquence. Just straight up thanks.

I am so thankful for each person who has taken the time to read this blog, and, known to me or not, travel a small part of my journey with me. I'm so thankful for the people who've written me, emailed me, or commented on these pages, willing to share your wisdom, and love, and joy. I'm beyond thankful.

I think a lot of people think of blogs as these launching pads to big things--to book deals, and writing jobs, and snapshots with Jon Acuff.

This blog never really had that intent. And it still doesn't. Because the people who've read it have launched me to so much more--to friendships, and to hope, and above all, to Christ.

I'm so so thankful.

Thank You.

wild joy.

I did something crazy. I mean, like, something really out there. You might not believe it. I barely believe it.

I talked to strangers about Christ. I did. I felt God telling me to go sit with them. And then to stay sitting with them. Then to speak with them.

Oh holy crap, it looks even crazier written out like that.

Ok, breathing. Breathing.

So I shared openly. I talked about the struggles I had moving into this culture, and how I'm learning to overcome them. About my relationships with other Christians, and how my negativity towards them had kept me from Christ. I talked about the logic of grace, and I told them about how one of the defining features for me, of Christianity, is that it deals with the discrepancy between what I know I ought to be, and what I am. I talked about the love of Christ that helps me to bridge that gap. I told them about how we all have faith, and God will bring us to truth, if we're willing to be truly honest with ourselves. I pointed out that everyone lives by faith. I suggested that we have to trust not only our intellect, but also the prompting of our hearts. And I pointed out that we all seem to have innate desires for two things: love and justice--two desires perfectly matched for the narrative of Christ.

It wasn't just me talking--all of this was evenly interspersed throughout an hour and a half of conversation, of pretty wonderful back-and-forth. But it all got said.

Along with a lot of other stuff. We chattered about chick flicks, and Palin's new tv show, and pastry. It was good.

After it all, I got to my car. And flipped out.

I'm not the kind of person who says, "Oh yes, God, I'll go over there to those strangers, and spill my guts about Christ." In fact, at the start, I thought for a couple of minutes about just staying where I was, about ignoring the directive. Like, "Big G, this is Hebrew's--you know you got some other peeps up in here who could take care of this noise." This place might as well be on the James River campus.

But I did it. I thought, and I then I just realized in that moment, that I didn't want to be that girl who was always saying no to God. I want to be that one who follows instructions, and sees these crazy things happening in peoples' lives.

Afterwards, through the freaking out, it occurred to me that this is how obedience works. Sometimes, I read stories of awesome things happening in peoples' lives, and I realize that the reason it all worked out is because all of the people involved were obedient. Not that God needs us, He could just make it happen, but He uses us. And so I hear or read stories, and I note that it's obedience that turned the story.

And here.. it happened. In my own life, I saw it happen. I was actually not the first person talking about Christ to these people that night. And had I decided to stay where I was, they would have left with a much different view of Christ and Christians. But I said yes, and because of that, something is now in their hearts that could change everything. Could wipe out the hurt, the fear, and uncertainty. Could bring wild joy.

That's humbling. It's terrifying, actually. And humbling. And also a little exhilarating. And more terrifying. Still humbling.

And beautiful.

fairytale fears.

Not a great morning for me, for church. But a beautiful morning for a walk. So walk, I did. Three times around the entire church, with the door greeters staring at me as I went. Putting off the inevitable. The more I walked, I less I felt I could go in. I had to go in anyway--I was helping out in production during second service. But each step seemed to make it harder to force myself into the doors. It didn't get any easier on the inside. I spent the morning on the verge of tears. One unlucky red carpet host almost got the full measure of crazy. I just kept thinking--how am I going to make this all work?

The intensity of my experience at home, combined with the full force of how quickly I've sort of "re-established" my faith after returning, is spinning me a bit.

Sometimes, I have to remind myself. Just breathe. Just live. Don't get so caught up in what you're thinking and feeling in the moment that you forget to just grab the moment. Don't get so confused by whether this is what you had expected, or if it's what you'd planned, that you miss experiencing it.

I'm living a fairytale.

It's true. I've been into enough churches to know that this one is special. I've met enough Christians to know that these are the real deal. I am living something here that is shocking, because of its wonderfulness. I can remember a time when I was twisted up so badly in my mind and heart, I could barely make sense of myself, because I was so certain that though I wanted Christ, I could not have Him. I was absolutely convinced that though I was miserable outside of the church, I had to keep myself outside, so as to avoid being mislead. It was dark. Definitely more than a little sad.

C.S. Lewis wrote [in paraphrase] that the question is not whether someone can live without Christianity, but whether you can.

I'm not sure if I ever made public the post I wrote about this, but the answer is no. I can't. I don't want to. And if I do, it'll be a terrible mistake. An awful choice.

I think I'm looking at the lifestyle and beliefs of my friends, and I'm asking the wrong question. I'm asking whether I'll be able to live as a biblical Christian? Can I live differently? Can I believe in a faith that the modern world denies? But really, the question is...would I ever be able to reject biblical Christianity? Could I live apart from Christ? Could I say that I won't pray, I won't wait on Him, I won't read about Him, I won't spend time with Him?

No, no. I can't. Friends, I love Him. I could never say goodbye. And what would be the point of trying? I'd be like a child, obstinately giving the silent treatment, knowing all along that the richness of my life had been stolen, taken, mislaid, by my own pride.

I'm being a little too transparent for my own good, here. Too earnest.

But this is truth.

Whatever foolishness I fear pales in comparison to the desperation of a Christ-less life.

last thing on the altar.

"While my friend was conversing with her, preparing her to be prayed with that she might be healed, I sat in a deep chair on the opposite side of a large room. My soul was crying out to God in a yearning too deep for words, when suddenly, it seemed to me that I had passed under a shower of warm tropical rain, which was not falling upon me but through me. My spirit and soul and body under this influence soothed into such a deep still calm as I had never known. My brain, which had always been so active, [emphasis added] became perfectly sill. An awe of the presence of God settled over me. I knew it was God. Some moments passed; I do not know how many. The Spirit said, 'I have heard your prayers, I have seen your tears. You are now baptized in the Holy Spirit.'"

These are the words of John G. Lake, a seminal figure in early Pentecostalism, describing his spirit baptism. They are, obviously, beautiful.

I'm reading this book (see last post) about Pentecostal leaders who came out of Zion, my hometown, and in particular, out of the movement centered around the church that is in fact the church in which I learned of Christ.

These people--their stories are so tremendous. In most cases, they were invited to a strange house where they stood in crowded rooms, overflowing out onto porches, for hours and for days, listening to men and women preach of Christ's imminent return, and of the very ancient, yet entirely new, way of communing with God with which they were unfamiliar. They waited on their knees, they prayed by one and by many, for years, to receive His blessing. They gave up every comfort, a lot of them before even receiving spirit baptism(!), to go out to preach to others. They were steadfast, and seeking. Truly incredible individuals.

And they were real. As real as I am. Their experiences were real. As real as mine.

This book is full of stories, one after another, of people who sought after God, and then went to work for Him. And the stories are truly beautiful.

Listen to the story of this young woman, Jean Campbell, "The seekers were taught that they should be sanctified before they could receive the baptism. This seemed beyond Jean, and so she became discouraged. But in one prayer meeting, she recalled, 'The bandmaster of our city came in and said, 'I put the last thing on the altar coming up the hill!'' This is what Jean needed to hear, and what she did, with the result that the Spirit of God descended on her."

I'll admit, I didn't understand what this meant when I first read it (I'm not incredibly fluent in a lot of the phrases and images used in the old-timey pentecostal voice of the author). I imagined the bandmaster having dropped off some meat or grain or something on his way out to the tent. That notwithstanding-- what a beautiful passage, right? Reminds me of Parham's line about putting everything at the feet of Christ, that He might burn off what is unTruth.

It's all so beautiful. The way they waited on Him. The way they followed Him. How different the world is as a result of their obedience 100 years ago.

Gorgeous.

zion city.

Nerdy confession: When I go to AGTS library (which is kind of a treat), I always pray, before I hit the stacks, that God would bring me to some book that will either be meaningful, entertaining or interesting to me. So far, He's done a bang-up job, but today friends, He went above and beyond. Read:

"The accounts of the outpouring of the Holy Spirit in Zion City are remarkable in many ways. The supernatural events will thrill and inspire you. The fact that so many quality leaders of the Pentecostal movement had their roots in Zion City is almost unbelievable. The work these men and women accomplished for the Kingdom of God wherever they went is also striking. But more wonderful of all is the fact that these men and women of God became humble servants of the Lord Jesus Christ and remained faithful to Him until their work was finished and the Lord took them home. They did not become men and women with a great name in this world only to fail and disgrace the cause of Christ."

Titillating, right? Scintillating. Enthralling. Dare I say it...sexy. This, friends, is a sexy book. Oh right, you don't know why. Let me tell you.

"Zion City," now called "Zion," is my hometown. And I just happen to be a huge fan of Zion history. When the other teens were busy not caring about the roots of their suburb, I was reading about Reverend Dowie (a Scottish transplant with a passion for healing who created the "utopian" suburb to be a haven for Christianity), and how his daughter was burned up in a house fire that started from her curling iron (Dowie said that it was her vanity that took her!)! When the posers were completely unimpressed that he had founded our very own church, I was telling them about how the board room table under which he'd secured an alarm button was sitting in our very church's board room! I'm pretty sure that I am the only person I know who knows where to find Dowie's grave (along Sheridan Road, with a view of a very undignified cyclone fence). Oh, the drama!

I don't care how much of a nerd I sound like right now.

I haven't been this excited about a book since I discovered the Old Testament. Here's to exactly 376 pages of fascinating history.

I am wholly prepared to be thrilled and inspired.

intact.

I know two things.

I will be fine. God will be glorified.

Whatever this is--this moment of uncertainty, and fear and confusion--it's a moment only. Albeit a powerful one.

The truth is that I believe in fantastical things. I claim as truth things that seem downright nonsensical. Things that can be hard to defend and that ultimately take refuge in faith.

I don't mean to paint a bleak picture for the logic of Christianity--my faith is at least as logical as any other.

But--to believe all of these fantastical things, and to not shrink from their truth, puts me at odds with all of what I came from socially.

I had forgotten just how much of a sin it is to be biblically Christian among my peer group. The vitriol with which they approach the Christian faith is stunning. Or rather, the Christian ideology.

See, they are okay with my going to church, my identifying as Christian, and my interesting chatter about my experiences here--all pleasant, if odd, little corners of Ashley. It's the conviction they'd hate. The part about sin, and Christ, and absolute Truth. Because that stuff--that stuff has something to say about them, personally. I think that most people sense, even if they consciously espouse relativism, that the problem with any truth claim is that it is either true, or it's not, for anyone. For everyone. Hence all the squabbling over that famous question, "Do you think I'M going to hell?"

As far as truth claims go, I've crossed the line, and I've crossed it in a big way. I say, and do, and think things that would be baffling to them. More than baffling. Wrong. Crazy. Cultic. Brainwashed.

Of course, this I understand. I still remember the surge of adrenaline I felt the first time I heard someone speak in tongues in public. It was one of the most shocking and electrifying moments of my life. I can remember the exact moment I realized the people around me believed that the earth is only 6000 years old. My heart sped up, face flushed, palms sweating, it was like being tossed into an alternate universe. They do exist.

So I completely understand the distance between me and my friends. But I dread the process of having them understand--slowly, more and more--who I am. I'm sad to know that there are some things that we won't share, and there are decisions that we make that will be incomprehensible to the other.

Then again, that has always been the case.

And God has always been in control.

God only knows.

I'm standing in the bathroom of a posh little restaurant in the city, beyond tipsy, contemplating God.

Because apparently, there's no amount of wine, and no bigger occasion (say, a wedding) that can trump the complete terror I feel in the face of my life.

Hence, the drunk girl bathroom discussions with my friends. If you're a goodie, and always have been, let me explain. Girls get drunk. They convene in the bathroom (this part also happens amongst sober girls). And they spill it like the Oprah show. Unlike sober bathroom talk, this is just a little more ridiculous because there are no inhibitions. So you find yourself saying things like, "I just don't know if seminary is the right direction." In retrospect, I think it's obvious that the possibility of seminary dropped out of the race about an hour before, at the fourth glass of wine.

I can't lie. The situation is a little funny to me. Like an SNL skit. The wine-drunk girl talking about God school. To comfort me, a friend of mine told me that she once tried to minister drunk to a gay man at a bar. Some people probably think these are incredibly sad scenes. I think that, as is usually the case in life, the sadness is cornered with humor. But I'd say the writing is on the wall when you're slurring your way through these conversations. For myself, anyway. If this were someone else's life, I'd tell her she made a mistake, but that doesn't mean that she can't move on. So, please, if you're a drunk bathroom girl reading this--know there's hope.

Here's what interests me: I can't get drunk enough, I can't get far enough away from, I can't overshadow the question. I couldn't in college. And I couldn't this weekend. In that sense, it was a valuable experience. Also a valuable experience: the next morning. I learned that I'm not that girl any more. I can try to force myself into her life. But her life isn't mine.

What then is my life? I wish God would tell me. Because I don't want to ask. I can't lie. I don't want to pray. I don't want to read. I'm having a complete intolerance for Christian music. I'm dreading showing up on Sunday. Wednesday is out of the question. I can't even put on that little "Dare to Dream" pendant, knowing it's connected to His house. The best I've been able to do is ask Him to keep my heart safe through whatever this is.

I realized this weekend back in Chicago that I'm not the girl I was. But am I this girl? Am I this Christian girl? The easy answer is yes, and I'll get to that in future posts. But the easy answer isn't the whole answer.

People seem to hate it when I say this, but my experience is my own: I feel alone. Caught between these two cultures that are, in a lot of ways, really missing one another. Missing what it means to be secular, what it means to be Christian, what is required of each. I feel hesitant to accept advice from my oldest and best friends because they have world views that take them in directions away from the heart of Christ. I'm unable to trust fully the advice of my Christian friends because it sometimes misses the nuance of my loneliness--it treats my feeling as though it shouldn't be, but that feeling just is.

Thoreau wrote that you should "walk confidently in the direction of your dreams," but my heart is so muddled. I don't know what those are. My only real dream is for Truth--is to trust confidently in the heart of the One. To be one with God at ease.

How I get there, and what I spend the rest of my time doing-- God only knows.

worlds apart in the white city.

"I find that really surprising."

"Why?"

"Because I would just think it'd be mostly older people."

"Yeah, I get that. But lots of younger people, also very modern younger people, in dress and mannerisms, and humor."

"I would never expect them to be modern. The beliefs seem really outdated for there to be young, modern people involved."

Finally, she told me to write an ethnography--that people would be really interested in hearing what I was saying about the view from inside the conservative Christian community. She was enthralled. She also must have had no idea that people have beat me to this "going deep with the Christians" thing--conservative Christianity is not exactly America's best-kept secret.

All of this is from a conversation I had with a friend this weekend, from the 40th floor of a hotel in downtown Chicago. As we talked, I watched the lights turn on and off in the high-rises across from us, and gazed out onto Lake Michigan, twirling the cross on a silver chain around my neck.

"They're also highly intelligent and well-reasoned," I told her.

"Ok, but only so long as they're just towing the line on their particular beliefs, right?"

"No, not so much. A lot of them are quite conversant with their beliefs, and other belief systems. They have good reasons for believing what they do."

My other friend's mom pipes up, "Yeah, but you have to ask, why would they want to believe those things. That's the problem."

I answer, "They believe them because they find them to be true."

"Or because their parents have always believed them," added my friend. "Most Christians just get their beliefs from their parents--they can't think for themselves."

The conversation comes to a close as my friend told me a story of how someone she knew in high school had gotten so upset for my friend's lost soul that he cried once in conversation with her. My friend was angered by the crying. She felt like it would be okay if he were upset because he really understood the beliefs and felt sorrow for her, but because it was just because his parents had raised him to be indoctrinated by those things...well, how insulting.

There was a lot of talk of forced conversion episodes--stories of coworkers who pushed Jesus, and classmates unwilling to entertain other religious ideals. The inevitable nod to relativism. And the suggestion that I would never be happy at seminary--I'm too intellectual for it, apparently.

We were in the same room, and worlds apart.

going it alone. or not.

I can't bring myself to pray tonight. I can't even talk myself into reading the Old Testament, which is like the fudge sundae of my world. I can get myself to do almost anything using the OT as a bribe. Tonight? No-go.

When I hang out with large groups of Christians, I sometimes walk away with the sense that I don't fit in. More damaging is the sense that I never will. It's nothing that they're doing or saying. It's me. Seriously.

I wonder if I'll ever feel completely at home. I think--Ash, these are wonderful people, what's your deal, chica? I pick apart the situation until there are no parts left to pick. But I keep picking until all I can do is pray, but then, I can't bring myself to pray. Like tonight.

I think that maybe I'd be happier outside the church. But that's done. I'm ruined for nights of casual drinking on the couches of people who don't care for God. My heart is changed.

When I was away from God, my heart broke to be in His church. I believed that Christ had set this incredible example, and that churches were falling short of understanding the true power of that example. So I refused to take full part in them. But it hurt. I wanted to be in the church so badly. I felt like it was incredibly sacrificial on my part--to stay away, for intellectual reasons, from a community I so desperately wanted to be a part of.

Now, I'm in His church, only it's not always so great. I have all of these insecurities. I don't always know how to be in the church. I feel sometimes like I'm making all the effort (even as I know I have no right to expect other people to try to understand me). Things I find funny no one else does. And things other people find normal are just whacky to me. There are all of these differences, and sometimes, my talking about them can come across as divisive. It can be isolating.

I'm not sure how to find my way through it...

Usually, I just pray that though I can't pray, God would keep me.

fright faith.

My faith is about to get really stale.

Up to this point, it's been almost entirely about me. Which is fine, because it needed to be. I had (and have) a lot of misconceptions. I needed to root through the fine points, praying and thinking, and inviting God in refine.

But, I feel like I'm at a juncture. And it's maybe a dangerous one. Maybe one at which it's easy to get lost, to become stagnant.

Though there's still much work to do in thinking and praying and rooting, if my faith continues like it is, I'll miss the larger part of what it means to live in God. I'll not understand that I don't have a strictly personal faith. See, my faith, it isn't just for me.

I used to rail on about how the problem with American Christianity was that people didn't understand the supposed power of their supposed deity. That if they really "got it," they'd be an unstoppable force for good.

At the time, I had the passion, but lacked the Truth.

Now, I'm in danger of knowing the Truth, but not allowing that Truth to loose the passion.

These men came to James River earlier this year--men from other countries who, frankly, scared the crap out of me with their healing prayers and over-the-top stories of crazy foreign Spirit experiences. Their faiths scared me. They also enticed me.

The thing is this. If I believe in God, and I do, then miracles are not so crazy. And if I believe in miracles, there's no reason not to believe in asking for them. And if that's the case, then I could potentially be the kind of person who asks boldly for bold things, who acts boldly for bold things. But... I realized then, as I know now, that people of that kind of faith are normal. They don't have super-human wisdom, or inordinate amounts of courage. They just make the decision to believe at every juncture. And over the years of their lives those decisions all link together to form a chain of astounding strength. They move mountains not because they are themselves mountain-movers, but because they have learned to allow THE mountain-mover to dwell in them. By faith.

It'd be very easy to stop here. I have Christ, after all! It'd be so simple to stop growing here. To decide that I have enough God in my life now to live on. But what is the point of a half-lived faith? That seems almost detestable. To be so close to God, and so far from His power. If God is real, then I want ALL of what there is to have of Him. Even the parts that can only be gotten through doing scary things.

I doubt that I'll ever be casting out demons in Sri Lanka, but all the same...

Papa.

Papa.

I loved that.

When I was 14, the church that I had just taken up with had recently gone through a search for a missions pastor. They found a lovely family with two sons, and one daughter, and I distinctly remember seeing the picture of the younger son and knowing that our lives would somehow intersect.

A few weeks later then, when he arrived in Zion from the Philippines, our lives intersected.

I'm not sure when or how or why, but we became friends, with a twist. And when he'd pray, he'd pray "Papa." Papa God. I thought it was beautiful.

Months later, I remember standing in the kitchen with his Mom, heart-broken that he was going on a month-long missions trip back to the Philippines. She told me that distance makes the heart grow fonder. Apparently, the cure for distance is bad grammar--he wrote me these atrociously-edited emails that killed the heart-break. He also sent this beautiful necklace. It was a red stone on a black cord, and I thought it was about the sweetest thing that had ever happened to me.

He's married now. Someone else is dealing with his inability to distinguish between "their" and "they're." And I bet he has no idea that when deep in prayer, I think of that intimacy, the word "Papa," and I remember him. When I remember him, I remember all of the Christians who have touched my life. And when I remember them, "Papa" becomes all the more precious.

I am deeply in love with the people I've met here, the church, and the life I lead (more so than most of them know). Even the hard parts. The ones I cry over. But this isn't my life in Christ. This place, this time--they don't define me fully. Maybe now, but not forever. For better or worse, there will be other Christians, and other churches, and that won't change the reality of God. That won't displace the urgency of Christ.

God is timeless. Thus, I am timeless. At least the part of me fashioned after my Father. My Papa.

pillow talk.

I've been wondering how long my faith will last in the face of this graduate religious studies class I'm taking.

In fact, one of the great reliefs to me this term was walking into the class to discover that there was another James River person in the class. Going in, I knew that the type of academic discourse of the class was exactly the kind that could unsettle everything I've come to believe. So, when we started introducing ourselves, and the guy in front of me gave a very recognizable last name, I exhaled. Thank God. Not even just a random James River person, but someone who I could trust would bring a fair amount of strength in faith to the table. This guy would probably make it through the course faith in tact. So could I.

I've been surprised this term, to find that the class has not at all disturbed my faith (which is admittedly precarious at times). Until tonight.

In class, I'm surrounded by people who know so much more about the Christian and Jewish faiths than I might ever know. Sometimes, their knowledge is overwhelming to me. I listen to them speak, and I think, if these people wanted to decimate my faith, they could do it quickly. Who am I? Who am I to believe?

I'm similarly outmatched in strictly Christian circles. I have to admit, my peer group is a little intimidating at times. It's hard to talk openly of all that I'm experiencing and grappling with, when the people around me are so past that.

I'm surrounded by people who are strong Christians and have been apparently since the moment they were born (probably since conception--a friend told me this story about an Evangel prof who talks openly about how he speaks in tongues during sex with his wife (is that inappropriate for me to write about? because that's nothing compared to what you'll hear at Pillow Talk--a Christian sex conference so real you'll have to flash a marriage license to get in (#butanyway))).

The point is: I wish faith were easy for me. It seems so easy for other people. Like they believe because they always have. For them, God is obvious. The absence of Christ would be absurd. The Holy Spirit speaks succinctly.

I have to remind myself that we all make the decision. I remind myself that these beliefs are not any more ludicrous than others I've held. Yes, I could choose not to believe, but the absence of belief would in itself be a faith. Keep moving, Ash. Keep moving.

There's joy. It's hard, yes, but faith is not a downer. I don't do it because I have to. I do it because I want to. Because ultimately, I believe in God, and in atonement, and in the work of the Holy Spirit, even when my emotions grab hold. I don't remind my intellect. I remind that fickle, shallow part of my heart--the one that gets bruised easily, and scares at a whim, and invests too much in its own worth.

Sometimes, literally all I feel I can do is pray. And even then, I don't pray. I just sit, because prayer seems like too great an act of faith.

Have you ever just sat?

wiser for words.

I've been feeling alone in the church recently. It's an illusion, I know. But all the same, I feel it. This gnawing sense that there's so much going on that no one understands. In truth, a lot of them don't. More do than I probably credit as such.

I've stopped writing and talking about a lot of it because I get frustrated with my inability to talk openly about some issues, and because it's hard to be honest inside the church. There's a certain pressure to appear to have it all together. I fear that whatever I write might be misconstrued. And that in that confusion, my sense of being alone will be all the sharper.

But... I've dropped the F-bomb in this blog. More than once. I've suggested that the pastor doesn't mean what he's saying. I called a holiday service an abomination, and I completely insulted some members of another church. I've admitted to drugs and sex. I openly challenged God to come and get me, after suggesting that the non-denominationals are like the methadone of the church world. I quoted a pastor's wife in an unflattering light. The list goes on.

What's a little more honesty? You already know who I am. What I am. You know that I have a knack for getting it wrong, for arrogance, and error. In fact, the great strength of this blog for me has been as a medium for the honest working-through of my faith. I think that for the few who read it, that honesty is what compels.

The truth is--I have a choice to make now. I can either keep walking in, and face the stuff that I'm finding hard. Or I can decide I was wrong, and turn around. And that choice will make all the difference. I don't mean to be dramatic, it just will.

It used to be that every other week I was ready to leave the church, because I hadn't yet differentiated my affection for the church with my love for God. As my love for God grew in, I became more accepting of His Church. I began to recognize that whatever I don't agree with, I was learning about Him in the church, and that was (is) a necessary process.

This juncture is a little bit different. I now know more of the choice that we all make. I'm smart enough to know that most of our choices aren't based on fact, but emotion, but that the kind of wisdom that I'm seeing in the people I most admire comes from their learned ability to push past emotion, staying true not necessarily to "fact" as we moderns envision it, but to God's fact, as felt through His Spirit and seen in His Word. Their faith seems unwavering not because the experience of their faith remains still, but because they choose to act on the truth of promises, not the felt experience of them.

So, I feel myself at an interesting crossroad. I can choose to decide it's too hard. The wisdom I'm seeing--it's impossible. God can't work that in me. I'm not that kind of faithful. Or. I can choose to ignore all of the backtalk, and just do it. Live the faith I feel I'm not capable of. Wisdom, I'm finding, is made of so many seemingly tiny decisions throughout the course of a day that together, strengthen the whole. But those decisions have to be made.

In the interest of honesty, I've been struggling with very specific issues lately. Seminary? That's completely impractical. But the other possibilities are entirely joyless to me. What to do? Giving. I enjoy giving to my pet things, and at this point in my life, I have a financial choice to make--I can either give to the church, or to those projects (things that have been important to me for some time). There's really not the possibility of both right now, though I would imagine that won't always be the case. Character. There's poisonous irritability and discontent in my heart recently. I'm not living as the person of character I'd like to be.

I've sat down to write about any of these, and felt frustrated. How do I talk about them? What do I say? What will people think? The more I stare at a blank screen, the more anxious I get, and eventually, I run from the process entirely. Because I know the choice is there. Because I'm scared?