Friday, October 31, 2003
Thoughts to Think About
Here's a quote that I like:
"I thought of a rather cruel trick I once played on a wasp. He was sucking
jam on my plate, and I cut him in half. He paid no attention, just went on
with his meal, while a tiny stream of jam trickled out of his severed
esophagus. Only when he tried to fly away did he grasp the terrible thing
that had happened to him. It's the same with modern man. The thing that
has been cut away is his soul." ~George Orwell
Here's another.
"When I shake my butt, I feel it in my soul." ~ Beyonce
I'm still looking for the connection.
Here's a quote that I like:
"I thought of a rather cruel trick I once played on a wasp. He was sucking
jam on my plate, and I cut him in half. He paid no attention, just went on
with his meal, while a tiny stream of jam trickled out of his severed
esophagus. Only when he tried to fly away did he grasp the terrible thing
that had happened to him. It's the same with modern man. The thing that
has been cut away is his soul." ~George Orwell
Here's another.
"When I shake my butt, I feel it in my soul." ~ Beyonce
I'm still looking for the connection.
She Who Comes With Fire
There is a woman in our home.
The children have a name for her that I cannot write. It is a word spoken with awe and fear and only in their little foreign, pre-school tongue. Loosely translated it means “she who comes with fire”.
A couple of boys spent the night at our house once. I tucked them in along with my two boys that night. I sat them down and explained why they must be quiet and sleep all night. Our two little guests’ eyes grew bigger and bigger as I told about what would happen if they woke her up. She would enter their room and the wind would blow, she would stretch out her arms, and her feet would rise off the ground. With her hair standing up on end, sulfur smoke pouring from her ears and light beaming from her fingers and toes, she would turn her eyes upon them. Eyes that would pierce them at their very core and red hot laser beams would shoot out and fry their brains.
My sons listened solemnly, nodding their heads like ones who knew of what I spoke and feared that simply speaking of it would awaken the horror and bring it down upon their heads.
They knew the raw fire-fury of her love - a love so good it elicits reverence, so holy it demands justice, so jealous it binds you to it.
I, too, know this fire well.
It has scorched my heart when I have done some foolish thing or another jeopardizing the thin thread that binds us together. I have felt its jealous heat when I have paid attention to anything but her. I have stood in its presence awash in the guilt of my own indiscretions.
She comes to me with fire, and I want to dance in the flames, you see, she burns me because she loves me.
There is a woman in our home.
The children have a name for her that I cannot write. It is a word spoken with awe and fear and only in their little foreign, pre-school tongue. Loosely translated it means “she who comes with fire”.
A couple of boys spent the night at our house once. I tucked them in along with my two boys that night. I sat them down and explained why they must be quiet and sleep all night. Our two little guests’ eyes grew bigger and bigger as I told about what would happen if they woke her up. She would enter their room and the wind would blow, she would stretch out her arms, and her feet would rise off the ground. With her hair standing up on end, sulfur smoke pouring from her ears and light beaming from her fingers and toes, she would turn her eyes upon them. Eyes that would pierce them at their very core and red hot laser beams would shoot out and fry their brains.
My sons listened solemnly, nodding their heads like ones who knew of what I spoke and feared that simply speaking of it would awaken the horror and bring it down upon their heads.
They knew the raw fire-fury of her love - a love so good it elicits reverence, so holy it demands justice, so jealous it binds you to it.
I, too, know this fire well.
It has scorched my heart when I have done some foolish thing or another jeopardizing the thin thread that binds us together. I have felt its jealous heat when I have paid attention to anything but her. I have stood in its presence awash in the guilt of my own indiscretions.
She comes to me with fire, and I want to dance in the flames, you see, she burns me because she loves me.
How Does A Guy Like Me Get A Job Like Mine
I prayed for a friend of mine this week. I stopped by her house, because she was sick. She has this recurring illness that takes over her life, forcing her out of nursing school – now possibly for the third time – and scaring her little daughter. This disease is just a jerk that hounds her, a bully that shakes down her heart.
So I prayed for her. I have this expectation that when I pray for someone like her, who is really hurting, that I should pray in such a way that at least sounds like I believe that God actually cares.
I’m pretty much convinced that He does care for her and her pain, it’s just that I’ve seen a lot of people in my life who are in real pain, and I have never seen God show up miraculously delivering or healing them.
I shared this with a friend of mine. She said, “God’s never done that for you.” She looked surprised, “I’ve seen it happen a lot.”
Crap. Twenty years in ministry, and I find out that my faith is too weak to cure acne.
Oh well, maybe someday, and in the meantime, I guess I’ll have to keep wrestling with God and loving Cydney through her hurt.
I prayed for a friend of mine this week. I stopped by her house, because she was sick. She has this recurring illness that takes over her life, forcing her out of nursing school – now possibly for the third time – and scaring her little daughter. This disease is just a jerk that hounds her, a bully that shakes down her heart.
So I prayed for her. I have this expectation that when I pray for someone like her, who is really hurting, that I should pray in such a way that at least sounds like I believe that God actually cares.
I’m pretty much convinced that He does care for her and her pain, it’s just that I’ve seen a lot of people in my life who are in real pain, and I have never seen God show up miraculously delivering or healing them.
I shared this with a friend of mine. She said, “God’s never done that for you.” She looked surprised, “I’ve seen it happen a lot.”
Crap. Twenty years in ministry, and I find out that my faith is too weak to cure acne.
Oh well, maybe someday, and in the meantime, I guess I’ll have to keep wrestling with God and loving Cydney through her hurt.
Wednesday, October 29, 2003
The Big One Is The Most Dangerous
There is a study in my mind.
It’s walls are lined with books from it’s floor to high ceiling. A ladder on rollers leans against one wall there so I can reach the books resting on the high shelves. Two leather wingbacks face the fire as it crackles and pops. There is a large mahogany desk the top of which is covered in open books.
Until recently most of these books were closed, collecting dust on the shelf.
Only a few had been open or even used much. They had titles like “How to Do Ministry” and “Making Church Happen”. Their spines were bent, pages were frayed and coffee ringed.
In these past few years, slowly, one book at a time, others have been brought down from their resting places, dusted, and cracked open once more. Many of these had been in there place since Sunday School back at the little church in Treaty.
“What Is Church?”
“What Does It Mean to Be A Minster?”
“What Is Faith?”
These were books I had closed the cover on long ago. Today, they lie open and used, reconsidered.
A blue dawn gathers outside casting light into the study of my mind. No longer will I be content to live having closed the book on my beliefs and my faith. The books will remain open, my mind will remain open. My faith will be fluid.
There is one book, larger than the rest, which lies underneath them all. In fact, all the rest are just appendixes to this book. On it spine are the words “Who God Is and Why He Matters”.
Amazing that I could have lived so long now with that one closed and shoved out of sight. No more.
There is a study in my mind.
It’s walls are lined with books from it’s floor to high ceiling. A ladder on rollers leans against one wall there so I can reach the books resting on the high shelves. Two leather wingbacks face the fire as it crackles and pops. There is a large mahogany desk the top of which is covered in open books.
Until recently most of these books were closed, collecting dust on the shelf.
Only a few had been open or even used much. They had titles like “How to Do Ministry” and “Making Church Happen”. Their spines were bent, pages were frayed and coffee ringed.
In these past few years, slowly, one book at a time, others have been brought down from their resting places, dusted, and cracked open once more. Many of these had been in there place since Sunday School back at the little church in Treaty.
“What Is Church?”
“What Does It Mean to Be A Minster?”
“What Is Faith?”
These were books I had closed the cover on long ago. Today, they lie open and used, reconsidered.
A blue dawn gathers outside casting light into the study of my mind. No longer will I be content to live having closed the book on my beliefs and my faith. The books will remain open, my mind will remain open. My faith will be fluid.
There is one book, larger than the rest, which lies underneath them all. In fact, all the rest are just appendixes to this book. On it spine are the words “Who God Is and Why He Matters”.
Amazing that I could have lived so long now with that one closed and shoved out of sight. No more.
Tuesday, October 28, 2003
In the surly state of my soul, the blue yet gathers.
Wednesday, October 22, 2003
The Danish
Having returned to read my last entry I feel it is important that I extrapolate further on the subject of Danes.
So far as I know, at no point in my life have I harbored ill-will toward the country of Denmark or the Danish people in general. I simply saw that tin and something in me snapped.
To be honest, I felt a little guilty about my comment when I went to lunch. I ate at a place called Valhalla’s, a Danish breakfast and lunch place. I kid you not.
They made a phenomenal BLT Salad topped with cheddar cheese and croutons, bleu cheese dressing on the side. Yummy.
You can see why I was a little disturbed. The people I had called “capitalist dogs” just fed me a scrumptious lunch. I guess they were making a buck off of it. Still, it doesn’t seem as greedy as those butter cookies in October. Pushed me right over the edge.
Having returned to read my last entry I feel it is important that I extrapolate further on the subject of Danes.
So far as I know, at no point in my life have I harbored ill-will toward the country of Denmark or the Danish people in general. I simply saw that tin and something in me snapped.
To be honest, I felt a little guilty about my comment when I went to lunch. I ate at a place called Valhalla’s, a Danish breakfast and lunch place. I kid you not.
They made a phenomenal BLT Salad topped with cheddar cheese and croutons, bleu cheese dressing on the side. Yummy.
You can see why I was a little disturbed. The people I had called “capitalist dogs” just fed me a scrumptious lunch. I guess they were making a buck off of it. Still, it doesn’t seem as greedy as those butter cookies in October. Pushed me right over the edge.
Original Sin
Good goooolly!
Do we need any more proof that something has gone terribly wrong with the world.
I walked into Orchard yesterday hunting down some flower seeds. Two feet in, I was met by a 12-foot Frosty as in “the Snowman”. It’s October and 85 degrees here in the valley.
Who in their right mind wants to buy a tin of Danish butter cookies in October. Those Danes are just trying to make an extra buck by getting there product out early. Capitalist dogs.
Good goooolly!
Do we need any more proof that something has gone terribly wrong with the world.
I walked into Orchard yesterday hunting down some flower seeds. Two feet in, I was met by a 12-foot Frosty as in “the Snowman”. It’s October and 85 degrees here in the valley.
Who in their right mind wants to buy a tin of Danish butter cookies in October. Those Danes are just trying to make an extra buck by getting there product out early. Capitalist dogs.
Tessa Louella
Before she went totally blind, my grandmother would play game after game of gin rummy with me. I was 5, and I love it, and I believed that she loved playing gin rummy.
I watched my children’s grandfather this week play game after game of Candyland with them, hours of sugar land fantasy fun. The little one’s love it, and they think that he loves playing Candyland, like he has Thursday night Candyland nights with the guys who all sit around smoking cigars, drinking beer, and getting pissed over having to go back to Plimpy.
He doesn’t love Candyland; he loves them enough to endure the hours of torture.
Her name was Tess. I called her Grandma Collins, and she loved me.
Before she went totally blind, my grandmother would play game after game of gin rummy with me. I was 5, and I love it, and I believed that she loved playing gin rummy.
I watched my children’s grandfather this week play game after game of Candyland with them, hours of sugar land fantasy fun. The little one’s love it, and they think that he loves playing Candyland, like he has Thursday night Candyland nights with the guys who all sit around smoking cigars, drinking beer, and getting pissed over having to go back to Plimpy.
He doesn’t love Candyland; he loves them enough to endure the hours of torture.
Her name was Tess. I called her Grandma Collins, and she loved me.
Monday, October 20, 2003
Missed Vs. Lost
A few years ago I went to this conference at a big church in Cincinnati. During this conference, Brian Mclaren, Leonard Sweet, and a few others dialogued about the word "lost" as it applies to those who do not follow Jesus.
It's been in my mind since then.
This weekend Tim taught on Re:thinking Evangelism. He addressed the issue.
He brought up those pictures on milk cartons, you know, the ones of children. They could be called "lost children" and it would be accurate but they aren't. Many of them could probably be called "assumed dead children" and it might be accurate but they aren't. They are called "missing children".
Maybe that's the best term to be used for those outside of Christ. They are missing.
Dang, I love that guy.
A few years ago I went to this conference at a big church in Cincinnati. During this conference, Brian Mclaren, Leonard Sweet, and a few others dialogued about the word "lost" as it applies to those who do not follow Jesus.
It's been in my mind since then.
This weekend Tim taught on Re:thinking Evangelism. He addressed the issue.
He brought up those pictures on milk cartons, you know, the ones of children. They could be called "lost children" and it would be accurate but they aren't. Many of them could probably be called "assumed dead children" and it might be accurate but they aren't. They are called "missing children".
Maybe that's the best term to be used for those outside of Christ. They are missing.
Dang, I love that guy.
He Lives
He was a loser’s loser. He fumbled from one distraction to another in the fruitless attempt to forget the empty space inside his skin. The tracks on his arm matched the single footprints in the desert of his soul. He was missing.
In one rare, lucid moment, he lay upon his filthy bed covered in the stench of sweat and puke, and he saw a tall, dark figure looming over his bed. It was a man dressed in black. Without seeing his face, he knew who the man was. Many years and foster homes ago, when he had lived with his mother, when she was still alive and he was very young, she would play her eight-tracks and sing along. She listened to one musician more than any other: Johnny Cash.
After that day, he saw this dark figure always in the shadow of the corner of his eye.
After a particularly dark night, he woke with a decision made, his first decision in what seemed a lifetime. That morning he filled a backpack and went thumbs up on the highway. His destination was the grave of the man who haunted his daydreams and nightmares. Something within the void of his under life pulled him like a magnet to this distant place.
He met many people on his trip, some were raw and injured and good to him, others were rough and wrong. He had many adventures of pain and joy in his journey though he made his way steadily toward his destination.
He reached the cemetery in the fuzzy hour of dusk to find the gate locked for the night. Scaling the fence, he found the grave as light was fading on the day, and he sat, and he waited. Silent moments stretched long, and fell into a disappointed sleep.
He dreamt there in the shadow of the Cash-stone. He was in a clear, beautiful place, sunny and green and warm. He bent down and drank from a pool of water clear and bright. It burned his throat and his belly, raw and sharp and good. Hearing the budda-bump of a galloping horse, he raised his eyes to the hilly horizon. There rode two upon a pure white horse, the rider in white, his companion in black. They rode out of sight.
He woke face to dirt six feet above the remains of his mother’s hero. Rolling upon his back, he saw them. A murder of crows surrounded him, resting upon the stone and the surrounding trees and the grass around him.
One crow hopped upon his belly and turned his cold, black eye on the man, frozen in his stare. He could see what looked like a bullet hole in the bird’s chest and after long minutes it spoke. With whisky breath and gravel voice it said,
“From such great heights, who will ever see us.”
The man left the cemetery that morning, and from that day to this, he lives.
He was a loser’s loser. He fumbled from one distraction to another in the fruitless attempt to forget the empty space inside his skin. The tracks on his arm matched the single footprints in the desert of his soul. He was missing.
In one rare, lucid moment, he lay upon his filthy bed covered in the stench of sweat and puke, and he saw a tall, dark figure looming over his bed. It was a man dressed in black. Without seeing his face, he knew who the man was. Many years and foster homes ago, when he had lived with his mother, when she was still alive and he was very young, she would play her eight-tracks and sing along. She listened to one musician more than any other: Johnny Cash.
After that day, he saw this dark figure always in the shadow of the corner of his eye.
After a particularly dark night, he woke with a decision made, his first decision in what seemed a lifetime. That morning he filled a backpack and went thumbs up on the highway. His destination was the grave of the man who haunted his daydreams and nightmares. Something within the void of his under life pulled him like a magnet to this distant place.
He met many people on his trip, some were raw and injured and good to him, others were rough and wrong. He had many adventures of pain and joy in his journey though he made his way steadily toward his destination.
He reached the cemetery in the fuzzy hour of dusk to find the gate locked for the night. Scaling the fence, he found the grave as light was fading on the day, and he sat, and he waited. Silent moments stretched long, and fell into a disappointed sleep.
He dreamt there in the shadow of the Cash-stone. He was in a clear, beautiful place, sunny and green and warm. He bent down and drank from a pool of water clear and bright. It burned his throat and his belly, raw and sharp and good. Hearing the budda-bump of a galloping horse, he raised his eyes to the hilly horizon. There rode two upon a pure white horse, the rider in white, his companion in black. They rode out of sight.
He woke face to dirt six feet above the remains of his mother’s hero. Rolling upon his back, he saw them. A murder of crows surrounded him, resting upon the stone and the surrounding trees and the grass around him.
One crow hopped upon his belly and turned his cold, black eye on the man, frozen in his stare. He could see what looked like a bullet hole in the bird’s chest and after long minutes it spoke. With whisky breath and gravel voice it said,
“From such great heights, who will ever see us.”
The man left the cemetery that morning, and from that day to this, he lives.
Friday, October 17, 2003
Correction To My Principles
I meant to write that I find "gratuitous" violence unhealthy. It was simply a grammatical error and not a slip of the Freudian kind.
I meant to write that I find "gratuitous" violence unhealthy. It was simply a grammatical error and not a slip of the Freudian kind.
They Both Start with P
I’ve been reading a book lately by Donald McCullough. He was a successful pastor and president of a seminary. He had an affair and came clean to his wife about it. Their marriage didn’t survive and neither did his career once his church bureaucracy found out. I can really relate to his story. Adulterers and liars, we are all made from the same mold.
In this book, he chronicles his loss, grief, and hurt. He tells his story from the beach. Watching the birds there, he sees in them his life.
I was totally confused reading the first chapter. He’s talking about these birds flying with grace and beauty and having a silly bill. Then I figured out where he had titled the book “The Wisdom of Pelicans”, I was translating that to be “The Wisdom of Penguins”. I mean really which bird looks wiser. And Batman never fought an evil villain “the Pelican”.
I’m about to start chapter 7, “Guano on the Head”. I can’t wait.
I’ve been reading a book lately by Donald McCullough. He was a successful pastor and president of a seminary. He had an affair and came clean to his wife about it. Their marriage didn’t survive and neither did his career once his church bureaucracy found out. I can really relate to his story. Adulterers and liars, we are all made from the same mold.
In this book, he chronicles his loss, grief, and hurt. He tells his story from the beach. Watching the birds there, he sees in them his life.
I was totally confused reading the first chapter. He’s talking about these birds flying with grace and beauty and having a silly bill. Then I figured out where he had titled the book “The Wisdom of Pelicans”, I was translating that to be “The Wisdom of Penguins”. I mean really which bird looks wiser. And Batman never fought an evil villain “the Pelican”.
I’m about to start chapter 7, “Guano on the Head”. I can’t wait.
A Man of Principles
Kyle is a friend of mine and when he was in high school he was labeled an “opinionated” student like some students are labeled “gifted”. It was true, he was very opinionated.
Like Kyle, I too have many opinions and many of those opinions are beliefs and many of those beliefs are principles. As a for instance, take my opinion on violence in the movies. I believe that some violence in entertainment is authentic and necessary to tell a specific story like Saving Private Ryan or The Lord of the Rings. There is another kind of violence which is of the “gratuitous” nature. As a matter of principle, I would say that the later is healthy for society, building up a callousness to what should be horrifying.
That said, I saw Quentin Tarentino’s Kill Bill today. What a flick! It was gory, bloody, gruesome, funny, hip, and brilliant. I was just disappointed that it ended so soon. It featured kung-fu gore served up with top of the line sound effects including the splat of blood hitting the floor and the squishy squish-squish of a sword entering a body.
Chapter 3 highlighted an anime cartoon about one of the evil characters, a half-Japanese, half-Chinese American Army brat, head of the Japanese mafia; very cool, very bloody.
So much for my principles.
After the movie, my wife and I went to the new Greatland Target in town. Here’s another opinion: America is being undermined by the great lie of consumerism, that a good American is an American who buys stuff.
Greatland was truly great. It offered cheap deals on CD’s, all kinds of gadgets arranged on easy to access shelves, and brand new carts that rolled flawlessly, no sticky wheels. I plan on living there in a camping display.
What have I learned today? I have learned that Quentin is a film-making God. I have learned that Target, for whom I was once employee-of-the-month, will now know me as customer-of-the-month.
I have learned that having principles is one thing, living by them is a different thing entirely.
Kyle is a friend of mine and when he was in high school he was labeled an “opinionated” student like some students are labeled “gifted”. It was true, he was very opinionated.
Like Kyle, I too have many opinions and many of those opinions are beliefs and many of those beliefs are principles. As a for instance, take my opinion on violence in the movies. I believe that some violence in entertainment is authentic and necessary to tell a specific story like Saving Private Ryan or The Lord of the Rings. There is another kind of violence which is of the “gratuitous” nature. As a matter of principle, I would say that the later is healthy for society, building up a callousness to what should be horrifying.
That said, I saw Quentin Tarentino’s Kill Bill today. What a flick! It was gory, bloody, gruesome, funny, hip, and brilliant. I was just disappointed that it ended so soon. It featured kung-fu gore served up with top of the line sound effects including the splat of blood hitting the floor and the squishy squish-squish of a sword entering a body.
Chapter 3 highlighted an anime cartoon about one of the evil characters, a half-Japanese, half-Chinese American Army brat, head of the Japanese mafia; very cool, very bloody.
So much for my principles.
After the movie, my wife and I went to the new Greatland Target in town. Here’s another opinion: America is being undermined by the great lie of consumerism, that a good American is an American who buys stuff.
Greatland was truly great. It offered cheap deals on CD’s, all kinds of gadgets arranged on easy to access shelves, and brand new carts that rolled flawlessly, no sticky wheels. I plan on living there in a camping display.
What have I learned today? I have learned that Quentin is a film-making God. I have learned that Target, for whom I was once employee-of-the-month, will now know me as customer-of-the-month.
I have learned that having principles is one thing, living by them is a different thing entirely.
Thursday, October 16, 2003
History and Me
I just returned from a couple of days at the central coast.
I stumbled into a noon mass at the mission in San Luis Obispo. I sat there in a building over 200 years old listening to word written by Paul almost 2,000 years old being spoken by a priest who spoke English as a second language. He spoke English carefully, not poorly.
I was overwhelmed by a sense of history. People have journeyed with God to God for almost countless generations, and I am a part of them. I am stepping where they have stepped, some still meet me on the way to encourage, challenge and embolden me. I felt small.
I lit a candle that day, something I’ve never done before. I prayed, and it was good.
I just returned from a couple of days at the central coast.
I stumbled into a noon mass at the mission in San Luis Obispo. I sat there in a building over 200 years old listening to word written by Paul almost 2,000 years old being spoken by a priest who spoke English as a second language. He spoke English carefully, not poorly.
I was overwhelmed by a sense of history. People have journeyed with God to God for almost countless generations, and I am a part of them. I am stepping where they have stepped, some still meet me on the way to encourage, challenge and embolden me. I felt small.
I lit a candle that day, something I’ve never done before. I prayed, and it was good.
Jesus Who Weeps
I’ve got a friend named Tim. He a 20 year old guy who plays in an emo band. “Emo” is an emotional, thinking man’s form of punk. Tim is one of the coolest guys I know. He lives about 2,500 miles away; we communicate by sporadic e-mails. I got one from him today.
Tim attends a conservative Bible college in the mid-west, the same one that I graduated from. He lives off-campus; that’s a good thing.
He wrote:
“i'm really glad that you gave me that piece of advice about CBC, i think it was "keep one foot in and one foot out." i feel as if at times, Christianity to these people is just some religious practice and is only meant for the intellectual mind. it feels as if emotion means nothing, yet it was Jesus who was weeping for the people who would not come to know him. and it was our God in Heaven who sent his son, out of love and grace, to die for us. and, still, it seems like that doesn't matter to these people, they just want people to have all of the "correct" theological principles down and then everything is fine. it makes me sad that men with the dirty hands of sin actually think that they have a firm grasp on the all-knowing, all-powerful, ever present God. i sure do not, yet God loves me. and i'm tired of people acting like you are only right with God if you are a know it all. it's not wonder the world gets turned off by jargon ...”
Dude couldn’t be any more right.
I taught on this last Sunday. Why is it that we treat Christianity as an intellectual thing? Becoming a Christian means to “accept” Him. The Bible never mentions “accepting” Jesus. We like that word because it means to recognize as true. Acknowledge a few statements about Jesus and God and the Bible and you are in. It’s all in what you know and believe to be true. What ever happened to the faithfulness of believing or the trust of belief. Faith has become nothing but a head trip.
Instead of “accepting” Him, Jesus says to “follow”. To follow Him is to be confused about where we are going, to be reined in if I run ahead, to be pulled along if I lag back, to not be in charge of my life anymore. This is more than a mind game, it is a life game.
Is my opinion hanging out?
I love that Tim thinks like this too. It makes me proud. It makes me think that I am brilliant, because I’m pretty sure he is. It makes me hopeful that young Christians like Tim may have a better and purer understanding of faith in some ways that I have had.
If Tim' faith is any indication, my hope is well-founded.
I’ve got a friend named Tim. He a 20 year old guy who plays in an emo band. “Emo” is an emotional, thinking man’s form of punk. Tim is one of the coolest guys I know. He lives about 2,500 miles away; we communicate by sporadic e-mails. I got one from him today.
Tim attends a conservative Bible college in the mid-west, the same one that I graduated from. He lives off-campus; that’s a good thing.
He wrote:
“i'm really glad that you gave me that piece of advice about CBC, i think it was "keep one foot in and one foot out." i feel as if at times, Christianity to these people is just some religious practice and is only meant for the intellectual mind. it feels as if emotion means nothing, yet it was Jesus who was weeping for the people who would not come to know him. and it was our God in Heaven who sent his son, out of love and grace, to die for us. and, still, it seems like that doesn't matter to these people, they just want people to have all of the "correct" theological principles down and then everything is fine. it makes me sad that men with the dirty hands of sin actually think that they have a firm grasp on the all-knowing, all-powerful, ever present God. i sure do not, yet God loves me. and i'm tired of people acting like you are only right with God if you are a know it all. it's not wonder the world gets turned off by jargon ...”
Dude couldn’t be any more right.
I taught on this last Sunday. Why is it that we treat Christianity as an intellectual thing? Becoming a Christian means to “accept” Him. The Bible never mentions “accepting” Jesus. We like that word because it means to recognize as true. Acknowledge a few statements about Jesus and God and the Bible and you are in. It’s all in what you know and believe to be true. What ever happened to the faithfulness of believing or the trust of belief. Faith has become nothing but a head trip.
Instead of “accepting” Him, Jesus says to “follow”. To follow Him is to be confused about where we are going, to be reined in if I run ahead, to be pulled along if I lag back, to not be in charge of my life anymore. This is more than a mind game, it is a life game.
Is my opinion hanging out?
I love that Tim thinks like this too. It makes me proud. It makes me think that I am brilliant, because I’m pretty sure he is. It makes me hopeful that young Christians like Tim may have a better and purer understanding of faith in some ways that I have had.
If Tim' faith is any indication, my hope is well-founded.
Thursday, October 09, 2003
The Man in the Boy
I have two boys living in my house, my sons, Jackson, age 6, and Cooper, age 4. When you live with young boys you learn something about them: the man is in the boy early. To quote my wife, “boys are just gross.” Truly spoken.
At least once daily, Cooper can be heard to yell, “Mama, Papa, I went poopie on the pottie.” Being four this is a fairly recent accomplishment and in his case a very difficult one to master. (Turns out either we are really bad at pottie training or our children are since all three of them have proven themselves to be late flushers.) Still being an event that we want to encourage, we celebrate Cooper’s movements.
So last night, Coop makes his announcement, and I came running to celebrate and to wipe. This is a part of the process that he has not yet mastered. In his defense, he is not a big child and the part that he needs to wipe isn’t easy access.
While taking care of his underside, I noticed what Coop had left in the toilet. It was impressive. I told him, “Boy, that’s as big as Texas.” I couldn’t help a small measure of pride creeping into my voice.
He stared down the porcelain bowl and said contemplatively, “Yeah, but it’s not as big as the curly one. It wrapped around like a snake.”
Now, I do not know what he meant by “the curly one”, but his small voice had strains of reverence and awe as if he was speaking about a burning bush he had encountered once long ago.
I heard that same tremble and quiet inspiration in the voice of a friend I work with recently. He walked into my office and said, “Dude, you won’t believe what I just left in the pot.”
The man is in the boy, and the boy is in the man, and he never leaves.
I have two boys living in my house, my sons, Jackson, age 6, and Cooper, age 4. When you live with young boys you learn something about them: the man is in the boy early. To quote my wife, “boys are just gross.” Truly spoken.
At least once daily, Cooper can be heard to yell, “Mama, Papa, I went poopie on the pottie.” Being four this is a fairly recent accomplishment and in his case a very difficult one to master. (Turns out either we are really bad at pottie training or our children are since all three of them have proven themselves to be late flushers.) Still being an event that we want to encourage, we celebrate Cooper’s movements.
So last night, Coop makes his announcement, and I came running to celebrate and to wipe. This is a part of the process that he has not yet mastered. In his defense, he is not a big child and the part that he needs to wipe isn’t easy access.
While taking care of his underside, I noticed what Coop had left in the toilet. It was impressive. I told him, “Boy, that’s as big as Texas.” I couldn’t help a small measure of pride creeping into my voice.
He stared down the porcelain bowl and said contemplatively, “Yeah, but it’s not as big as the curly one. It wrapped around like a snake.”
Now, I do not know what he meant by “the curly one”, but his small voice had strains of reverence and awe as if he was speaking about a burning bush he had encountered once long ago.
I heard that same tremble and quiet inspiration in the voice of a friend I work with recently. He walked into my office and said, “Dude, you won’t believe what I just left in the pot.”
The man is in the boy, and the boy is in the man, and he never leaves.
Sunday, October 05, 2003
To My Nephew on His 13th Birthday
Elijah,
It is your thirteenth birthday, and your dad asked me to write to you about becoming and being a man of God.
Let me tell you that you’ve got a great example of a man and a godly one living right in your own house. I read a book once about men that said that there is one question that every boy has. “When am I a man?” I think that’s true. It also said that there is one person who can truly answer that question for the boy, his dad. Your dad is answering that question for your heart. It may not even be a question that you’ve ever thought about but it probably rests deep down in the recesses of your heart.
Your dad is a great man, Elijah. Those kind of things are hard to see sometimes when we live with people and see them at their worst, but he is a great man. He longs for and chases after Jesus. He is allowing Jesus to mentor him. He loves people, beginning with your mom. Bottom line: I couldn’t imagine having a better dad that the one you have.
I know a guy who gave this advice to his son who had just graduated high school. “Son,” he said, “life is only long enough for you to have only one great passion.” I think it is important that you, Elijah, hear those same words.
You are thirteen today. Trust me on this. You are going to blink and you are going to be thirty. Life is like that, it burns down fast like a dollar store candle. You see, you were put here for a reason, a purpose. By here, I mean on earth in America in Indiana in Centerville in the 21st century, an Alvey. There is a great grand story being played out in human history and God said, “It’s time to introduce a new character, and you were born.”
Look at what God told Jeremiah. “‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the LORD , ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’” (Jeremiah 29:11) God has plans for you, plans to give you hope and a future.
Now, I’m sorry to tell you that the story is not about you. You are not the central character. You see, God is not only the author of life, he is the main character. The whole big story is about Him. But it can’t be all about Him without you, especially now that He is inside of you, living in you.
God has a greater purpose for your life. Frodo had his quest to return the ring. William Wallace had Scotland to unite. You, too, have an adventure set before you, born of God and pregnant with eternal significance.
There is one who doesn’t want you to know this, and he especially doesn’t want you to believe it. He is a liar, and he is Satan. He wants you to think that you are not important, that you are small potatoes, that you aren’t worth much. He wants to distract you, sap away your potential. He wants you to think that you are only thirteen and that you need to wait until you are older before you can really do anything for God.
Don’t believe him. Don’t agree with his lies.
Spend time with God. It is from Him that the truth comes, and the truth is that you were a part of His plan from before time began and that you have a realm of influence that no one else on earth can ever have and that you could not be loved any more or any less by the God of the universe. He chose you.
I read somewhere that a student had written Mother Theresa asking her how he could make an impact in the world like she had. Mother Teresa was a nun who chose to live in and serve people who lived in a place in Calcutta, India called the City of Joy which is really an ironic name since that section of the city of Calcutta is filled with acute poverty, debilitating famine, and unspeakable atrocities. It is a horrible place where people die and die badly. Mother Theresa loved those people and was recognized around the world as an example of self-sacrifice and compassion. She did a lot for the world in the name of Christ.
This student waited a long time for a reply from Mother Theresa. When he finally received it, the letter was only one sentence, four words long.
She wrote, “Find your own Calcutta.”
Elijah, find your own Calcutta. It is not too early for you to begin your adventure, to find your calling. God has made you good at some things, and he has made you like some things. One of those things I know is that you love a good story. Maybe God has a plan for you that involves words in some way.
Consider those talents you have, your abilities. Think and pray about what you really care about. Search your heart with God and eventually He will show you what it beats for. You were made to love people. The ins and outs of that love God will show you.
Know this. God has never said, “Well, you’ve got to be 21 before I can use you so you can go goof around till then.” You can be about the business of changing the world right now. I have a friend who started a bible study in his house when he was in high school. He taught it. I’m not suggesting that you start a bible study, I am saying that you need to wrestle with this question: what can I do to love and serve people right now?
More than anything, listen to God on this. I can’t say that I’ve ever heard God speak audibly to me. But I can confidently attest to God speaking to me more than once. Sometimes He spoke through a friend or family member, other times He used a passage of the Bible to speak to me, and he has really gotten my attention when I’ve gotten away from noise and business. Listen to Him, Elijah. You live in a God-bathed world. He is all around you always, and He’s got plenty to tell you.
You may be thinking, “But Uncle Russ, I’m just thirteen.” Remember the guy I mentioned. You’ve only got time for one great passion. You can’t start this journey too soon.
Elijah, as you journey, I will be praying for you. I have prayed for you as I sent this letter. I prayed the prayer that Paul prayed for his friends in Ephesus.
“When I think of the wisdom and scope of God's plan, I fall to my knees and pray to the Father, the Creator of everything in heaven and on earth. I pray that from his glorious, unlimited resources he will give you mighty inner strength through his Holy Spirit. And I pray that Christ will be more and more at home in your hearts as you trust in him. May your roots go down deep into the soil of God's marvelous love. And may you have the power to understand, as all God's people should, how wide, how long, how high, and how deep his love really is. May you experience the love of Christ, though it is so great you will never fully understand it. Then you will be filled with the fullness of life and power that comes from God.
Now glory be to God! By his mighty power at work within us, he is able to accomplish infinitely more than we would ever dare to ask or hope. May he be given glory in the church and in Christ Jesus forever and ever through endless ages. Amen.
Know that I am now and have always been proud to be your uncle. You have given me great joy. And I am confident that the day will come when we will be able to work side by side still about the business that we have each started here, ruling with Christ in the heavenly realms.” (Ephesians 3:14-21)
Your Uncle, friend, brother, and fellow journeyman,
Russ
Elijah,
It is your thirteenth birthday, and your dad asked me to write to you about becoming and being a man of God.
Let me tell you that you’ve got a great example of a man and a godly one living right in your own house. I read a book once about men that said that there is one question that every boy has. “When am I a man?” I think that’s true. It also said that there is one person who can truly answer that question for the boy, his dad. Your dad is answering that question for your heart. It may not even be a question that you’ve ever thought about but it probably rests deep down in the recesses of your heart.
Your dad is a great man, Elijah. Those kind of things are hard to see sometimes when we live with people and see them at their worst, but he is a great man. He longs for and chases after Jesus. He is allowing Jesus to mentor him. He loves people, beginning with your mom. Bottom line: I couldn’t imagine having a better dad that the one you have.
I know a guy who gave this advice to his son who had just graduated high school. “Son,” he said, “life is only long enough for you to have only one great passion.” I think it is important that you, Elijah, hear those same words.
You are thirteen today. Trust me on this. You are going to blink and you are going to be thirty. Life is like that, it burns down fast like a dollar store candle. You see, you were put here for a reason, a purpose. By here, I mean on earth in America in Indiana in Centerville in the 21st century, an Alvey. There is a great grand story being played out in human history and God said, “It’s time to introduce a new character, and you were born.”
Look at what God told Jeremiah. “‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the LORD , ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’” (Jeremiah 29:11) God has plans for you, plans to give you hope and a future.
Now, I’m sorry to tell you that the story is not about you. You are not the central character. You see, God is not only the author of life, he is the main character. The whole big story is about Him. But it can’t be all about Him without you, especially now that He is inside of you, living in you.
God has a greater purpose for your life. Frodo had his quest to return the ring. William Wallace had Scotland to unite. You, too, have an adventure set before you, born of God and pregnant with eternal significance.
There is one who doesn’t want you to know this, and he especially doesn’t want you to believe it. He is a liar, and he is Satan. He wants you to think that you are not important, that you are small potatoes, that you aren’t worth much. He wants to distract you, sap away your potential. He wants you to think that you are only thirteen and that you need to wait until you are older before you can really do anything for God.
Don’t believe him. Don’t agree with his lies.
Spend time with God. It is from Him that the truth comes, and the truth is that you were a part of His plan from before time began and that you have a realm of influence that no one else on earth can ever have and that you could not be loved any more or any less by the God of the universe. He chose you.
I read somewhere that a student had written Mother Theresa asking her how he could make an impact in the world like she had. Mother Teresa was a nun who chose to live in and serve people who lived in a place in Calcutta, India called the City of Joy which is really an ironic name since that section of the city of Calcutta is filled with acute poverty, debilitating famine, and unspeakable atrocities. It is a horrible place where people die and die badly. Mother Theresa loved those people and was recognized around the world as an example of self-sacrifice and compassion. She did a lot for the world in the name of Christ.
This student waited a long time for a reply from Mother Theresa. When he finally received it, the letter was only one sentence, four words long.
She wrote, “Find your own Calcutta.”
Elijah, find your own Calcutta. It is not too early for you to begin your adventure, to find your calling. God has made you good at some things, and he has made you like some things. One of those things I know is that you love a good story. Maybe God has a plan for you that involves words in some way.
Consider those talents you have, your abilities. Think and pray about what you really care about. Search your heart with God and eventually He will show you what it beats for. You were made to love people. The ins and outs of that love God will show you.
Know this. God has never said, “Well, you’ve got to be 21 before I can use you so you can go goof around till then.” You can be about the business of changing the world right now. I have a friend who started a bible study in his house when he was in high school. He taught it. I’m not suggesting that you start a bible study, I am saying that you need to wrestle with this question: what can I do to love and serve people right now?
More than anything, listen to God on this. I can’t say that I’ve ever heard God speak audibly to me. But I can confidently attest to God speaking to me more than once. Sometimes He spoke through a friend or family member, other times He used a passage of the Bible to speak to me, and he has really gotten my attention when I’ve gotten away from noise and business. Listen to Him, Elijah. You live in a God-bathed world. He is all around you always, and He’s got plenty to tell you.
You may be thinking, “But Uncle Russ, I’m just thirteen.” Remember the guy I mentioned. You’ve only got time for one great passion. You can’t start this journey too soon.
Elijah, as you journey, I will be praying for you. I have prayed for you as I sent this letter. I prayed the prayer that Paul prayed for his friends in Ephesus.
“When I think of the wisdom and scope of God's plan, I fall to my knees and pray to the Father, the Creator of everything in heaven and on earth. I pray that from his glorious, unlimited resources he will give you mighty inner strength through his Holy Spirit. And I pray that Christ will be more and more at home in your hearts as you trust in him. May your roots go down deep into the soil of God's marvelous love. And may you have the power to understand, as all God's people should, how wide, how long, how high, and how deep his love really is. May you experience the love of Christ, though it is so great you will never fully understand it. Then you will be filled with the fullness of life and power that comes from God.
Now glory be to God! By his mighty power at work within us, he is able to accomplish infinitely more than we would ever dare to ask or hope. May he be given glory in the church and in Christ Jesus forever and ever through endless ages. Amen.
Know that I am now and have always been proud to be your uncle. You have given me great joy. And I am confident that the day will come when we will be able to work side by side still about the business that we have each started here, ruling with Christ in the heavenly realms.” (Ephesians 3:14-21)
Your Uncle, friend, brother, and fellow journeyman,
Russ
Saturday, October 04, 2003
A Mutie Lives Here
My family likes to watch the X-men, the 90’s cartoon version, Evolution, where they are high-school students, whatever’s on. Even my wife, the fair Queen Mother, joins in.
Whenever we watch television, a fight breaks out, usually a mild one, but a fight just the same. You see, in our house, you can’t just watch TV. You have to be someone who is in whatever you are watching. One day there was a commercial on between shows. A little voice was heard that said, “I’m the boy.” I think it was one of those commercials where a boy eats a piece of candy and his head turns into a watermelon.
The fight usually starts like this.
“I’m the caveman with the big, warty nose,” someone says.
“No, I’m the caveman with the big, warty nose.”
“No. I ‘m the caveman with the big, warty nose. I called it.”
“Let’s both be the caveman with the big, warty nose.”
“There can’t be two big, warty nosed cavemen.”
You get the picture.
When we sit down together to watch the X-men, we fight over Nightcrawler. My six-year-old calls him Kurt, like he knows him personally. You can count on at least three of the five of us fighting over who gets to be little blue freak. Some days it’s four out of five. And the fifth barely counts being the wife and mother.
For my own part, I think it would be so cool to be covered in blackish, blue fur, have cloven feet, and a pointy tail. Disappearing and appearing in a cloud of sulfur smoke is just a bonus.
As cool as it would be to have those things going for me, there is another, deeper reason I choose Kurt: he is a misfit. Let’s face it, if I really has his attributes I’d probably be in Cirqe Du Soleil‘s latest production. It wouldn’t be easy. In fact, one of the shows makes a point of exploring this fact.
I guess I can relate to Nightcrawler. I’ve felt like a misfit most of my life. Maybe that’s why I’m attracted to Jesus. There was a guy who loved the misfits, the oddballs, the nut-bars. I think I would have fit right in with a leper, a short, hated tax collector, and a demon-crazed freak who lives in a graveyard. In fact, those guys sound like my fifth grade friends.
I think too that if I were Nightcrawler, I would still hang around the New Hope crowd. C’mon, some of them are alcoholics, some are hippies, some are lesbians. Most churches would welcome a guy in full body fur quicker than they would some of those people. And I love them. And some of them love me. And I know that God loves all of us weirdoes.
For the record, I usually lose the fight over Nightcrawler. Being the only bald guy in the house, I’m usually stuck being Professor Xavier. The six-year-old usually gets to be Kurt. Who can argue with him when he’s on a first name basis with the mutant.
To be honest, the kid’s kind of a misfit too. I couldn’t be prouder.
My family likes to watch the X-men, the 90’s cartoon version, Evolution, where they are high-school students, whatever’s on. Even my wife, the fair Queen Mother, joins in.
Whenever we watch television, a fight breaks out, usually a mild one, but a fight just the same. You see, in our house, you can’t just watch TV. You have to be someone who is in whatever you are watching. One day there was a commercial on between shows. A little voice was heard that said, “I’m the boy.” I think it was one of those commercials where a boy eats a piece of candy and his head turns into a watermelon.
The fight usually starts like this.
“I’m the caveman with the big, warty nose,” someone says.
“No, I’m the caveman with the big, warty nose.”
“No. I ‘m the caveman with the big, warty nose. I called it.”
“Let’s both be the caveman with the big, warty nose.”
“There can’t be two big, warty nosed cavemen.”
You get the picture.
When we sit down together to watch the X-men, we fight over Nightcrawler. My six-year-old calls him Kurt, like he knows him personally. You can count on at least three of the five of us fighting over who gets to be little blue freak. Some days it’s four out of five. And the fifth barely counts being the wife and mother.
For my own part, I think it would be so cool to be covered in blackish, blue fur, have cloven feet, and a pointy tail. Disappearing and appearing in a cloud of sulfur smoke is just a bonus.
As cool as it would be to have those things going for me, there is another, deeper reason I choose Kurt: he is a misfit. Let’s face it, if I really has his attributes I’d probably be in Cirqe Du Soleil‘s latest production. It wouldn’t be easy. In fact, one of the shows makes a point of exploring this fact.
I guess I can relate to Nightcrawler. I’ve felt like a misfit most of my life. Maybe that’s why I’m attracted to Jesus. There was a guy who loved the misfits, the oddballs, the nut-bars. I think I would have fit right in with a leper, a short, hated tax collector, and a demon-crazed freak who lives in a graveyard. In fact, those guys sound like my fifth grade friends.
I think too that if I were Nightcrawler, I would still hang around the New Hope crowd. C’mon, some of them are alcoholics, some are hippies, some are lesbians. Most churches would welcome a guy in full body fur quicker than they would some of those people. And I love them. And some of them love me. And I know that God loves all of us weirdoes.
For the record, I usually lose the fight over Nightcrawler. Being the only bald guy in the house, I’m usually stuck being Professor Xavier. The six-year-old usually gets to be Kurt. Who can argue with him when he’s on a first name basis with the mutant.
To be honest, the kid’s kind of a misfit too. I couldn’t be prouder.
Friday, October 03, 2003
Prophets Without A Clue
My friend Dan and I were talking today about how being a pastor is a pain in the butt sometimes. Well, most of the time, and he said he felt a lot like Jeremiah. He could envision Jeremiah saying, “what the crap, God, why me?”
I agree.
My friend Dan and I were talking today about how being a pastor is a pain in the butt sometimes. Well, most of the time, and he said he felt a lot like Jeremiah. He could envision Jeremiah saying, “what the crap, God, why me?”
I agree.
The Krips, the Bloods, and the Cheese
I was in Chuck E. Cheese the other day with my two sons, a good friend, and his son whose birthday it happened to be. The boys had played out their tokens, gorged themselves on pizza and soda, and were currently playing a raging game of tag in and out of the big, colorful tubes.
As Andy and I sat talking, I felt something shift deep down inside. Lunch had dropped, urgent. I left Andy to watch the boys, and I shuffled off to Chuck E.’s john.
Having arrived at the stall, feeling both desperate and relieved, I took care of business. There isn’t much to like about using a public toilet except the reading material. I’m always interested in what observations the stall’s previous occupants have on life. I’ve been around long enough to not be shocked by anything I could read there, but not this time. I was shocked.
Chuck E.’s toilet had been tagged. Somebody from the North gang had claimed this stall as their territory.
Man, the universe is just not right. This is supposed to be the kind of world where a man can use a toilet in a Chuck E. Cheese and not have to worry about turf wars.
I was in Chuck E. Cheese the other day with my two sons, a good friend, and his son whose birthday it happened to be. The boys had played out their tokens, gorged themselves on pizza and soda, and were currently playing a raging game of tag in and out of the big, colorful tubes.
As Andy and I sat talking, I felt something shift deep down inside. Lunch had dropped, urgent. I left Andy to watch the boys, and I shuffled off to Chuck E.’s john.
Having arrived at the stall, feeling both desperate and relieved, I took care of business. There isn’t much to like about using a public toilet except the reading material. I’m always interested in what observations the stall’s previous occupants have on life. I’ve been around long enough to not be shocked by anything I could read there, but not this time. I was shocked.
Chuck E.’s toilet had been tagged. Somebody from the North gang had claimed this stall as their territory.
Man, the universe is just not right. This is supposed to be the kind of world where a man can use a toilet in a Chuck E. Cheese and not have to worry about turf wars.
The Old Man
I was laying in my bed this morning with Cooper, my son.
“When were you seven?” he asked me.
“1973.”
So then he starts to count. “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 12, 13, 19, 20…” He is thinking very hard as he counts.
“Papa, how old are you?”
“37,” I answer.
Then, in a happy, excited voice he says to me, “you could die.”
I was thinking “you could die right now kid”, when he took both his hands, put them on my cheeks, and pushed forcing my lips into a pucker. He gave me a big smacker of a kiss.
Cooper is four, and he may be the coolest person I know.
I was laying in my bed this morning with Cooper, my son.
“When were you seven?” he asked me.
“1973.”
So then he starts to count. “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 12, 13, 19, 20…” He is thinking very hard as he counts.
“Papa, how old are you?”
“37,” I answer.
Then, in a happy, excited voice he says to me, “you could die.”
I was thinking “you could die right now kid”, when he took both his hands, put them on my cheeks, and pushed forcing my lips into a pucker. He gave me a big smacker of a kiss.
Cooper is four, and he may be the coolest person I know.
Thursday, October 02, 2003
I am raising three children which I am not so bad at. I am loving one wife which I am not nearly so not so bad at. Not-nearly not-so-bad mostly out of exhaustion, and no small amount of self-focused, dormant-minded laziness. It's who I am.
Been wrestling through a revolution of my being. A cataclysm of the soul. Seems these past couple of years, I have taken stock of my beliefs about church, God, and myself and found them wanting. Less than wanting.
I have become disillusioned. (Which, by the way, it turns out to be not so very bad. Who wants to live with illusions.) I have found a place beyond the gray, dryness of old beliefs though. It is gathering into blue here.
It's hard to describe. I know that once I was taught the "right" things to believe. Then I left college and learned to believe only what worked in real life, which was remarkably different from what I had been taught.
A couple of years ago I started to question why I thought that if it worked that made it "right". I figured that there were lots of things that worked, but that didn't make them right. Why did I want to evaluate my faith and my ministry that way?
Let me tell you now, when you started wrestling with questions like that it's like standing on a 50 foot high pole, taking an axe, and hacking away at the pole underneath your feet. I started to wonder, "what's the point?"
Anyway, here in this awakening place, I am cool with not having all the answers anymore. I kinda like not being able to explain away everything. I very much like that I don't know how to be a minister. It used to scare me. Now I feel totally free.
Free from having to say things I don't really believe just because I knew I was supposed to say it and therefore, believe it. Free from having to dot all my spiritual i's and cross all my theological t's. Free for God to not make a whole lot of sense to me.
Dawn is rising here, and it comes gathering in blue.
I have become disillusioned. (Which, by the way, it turns out to be not so very bad. Who wants to live with illusions.) I have found a place beyond the gray, dryness of old beliefs though. It is gathering into blue here.
It's hard to describe. I know that once I was taught the "right" things to believe. Then I left college and learned to believe only what worked in real life, which was remarkably different from what I had been taught.
A couple of years ago I started to question why I thought that if it worked that made it "right". I figured that there were lots of things that worked, but that didn't make them right. Why did I want to evaluate my faith and my ministry that way?
Let me tell you now, when you started wrestling with questions like that it's like standing on a 50 foot high pole, taking an axe, and hacking away at the pole underneath your feet. I started to wonder, "what's the point?"
Anyway, here in this awakening place, I am cool with not having all the answers anymore. I kinda like not being able to explain away everything. I very much like that I don't know how to be a minister. It used to scare me. Now I feel totally free.
Free from having to say things I don't really believe just because I knew I was supposed to say it and therefore, believe it. Free from having to dot all my spiritual i's and cross all my theological t's. Free for God to not make a whole lot of sense to me.
Dawn is rising here, and it comes gathering in blue.
So, it begins. Write, I must.
