"Today this Scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing . . ."
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So what does Christmas mean to us? I mean, what's the point of it all? "That's easy: Jesus' Birth. Everyone knows, 'Jesus is the Reason for the season!' " Ok. But what does Jesus' birth mean for us? Why is it such a big deal that we have basically a whole month of shopping and decorating and playing special carols leading up to one day on the calendar? Why is this birth so worthy of hanging wreaths and red bows, decorating trees and making cookies, licking candy canes and giving gifts and having an international holiday?
It's not enough to just say, "Yay! Jesus was born!" Think about it, the Jews knew Jesus was born, and Herod tried to kill him; thirty years later the religious elite did the same thing. Problem is, the Jews missed it. They were looking for a political hero, a warrior messiah who would overthrow the Roman government and give the Jews political freedom from their slavish oppressors. But they were dreaming too small.
See, Jesus' kingdom is not of this world-- it's bigger (and better) than that. Jesus' kingdom can't be boxed up with easily manageable terms like political freedom and capitalsim and democracy. Jesus didn't come to overthrow tyrannical governments or to set up national democracies or to promise His followers political freedom-- otherwise His disciples would have taken up the sword against the godless and oppressive Roman Empire. No, Jesus came offering a freedom far greater and more glorious than any star-spangled banner or democratic republic or aircraft carrier could ever afford. Freedom from Adam's curse.
As angel choirs sang in the Second Adam's humble birth in Bethlehem, a bell tolled throughout the earth, the death-knell of sin and death itself. The curse would be reversed. Jesus' birth, 33-year life, and death and resurrection on our fallen sod was only the beginning. But it was the beginning. Not just a shadow of things to come, the coming of the Messiah was the actual Kingdom come . . . and still coming. It's a progressive regeneration and the Church is still being built and the Kingdom is still spreading like yeast through bread dough, like the invasive mustard tree-- a tiny, insignificant, despised seed irresistibly taking over a whole neighborhood, region, world. This is what the birth of Christ signaled. The death of death, good news for the poor, comfort for the mourning, the healing of broken hearts, the quenching of thirst, the sating of hunger, sight for the blind, dances for the crippled and lame, freedom for the captives and oppressed, love for enemies-- the forgiveness of sins and justification through grace-- LIFE for the dead, "that they may be called oaks of righteousness, the planting of the LORD, that He may be glorified!" (Is. 61:3)This is why we celebrate Christmas. So if we really believe what we spend so much time saying we believe, let us celebrate "the year of the LORD's favor" with all our hearts!
"Fear not, for behold, I bring you good news of GREAT JOY that will be for all the people . . ."
"Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among those with whom He is pleased!"
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Check out Isaiah 61:1-3 (cf. Luke 4:16-19). Jesus is reversing the curse. He tears out the roots of Adam's curse as He takes on the curse on the cross, and puts an end to death a few days later when we walks out of His grave-- death's sting-remover.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Monday, December 22, 2008
To Own a Kingdom
"Blessed are you poor for yours is the kingdom of God . . . But woe to you who are rich, for you are receiving your comfort in full." -- Jesus
How can the possession, ownership, rights to the kingdom of God be compared to or contrasted with receiving comfort in full? We know that rich people can enter into the kingdom, so what does it mean for the kingdom of God to be "yours?"
I think sometimes we think of the kingdom in too concrete or "boxed-in" terms. Jesus compared the kingdom to many very different things, events, actions, people and said that it is here, coming, in us and among us. How do you box that up? All this cannot be packaged into something so cut and dry as eternal salvation or "heaven." Yes, the kingdom is, in part, heaven, and it is salvation, but it is also so much more. Ushered in by grace and love and received by given faith, the Kingdom is a lifestyle of love, of faith, of good deeds, of striving to be perfectly holy like our Lord and Father--a radical new value system.
The kingdom of Heaven, of God, is here, now. It is today, this generation; the redeemed lifestyle of the redeemed, we live now with hope, and we LIVE! We live by faith with confident hope toward a future and perfect life that knows no death. The kingdom of God is a preview taste today of a beautiful life to be lived in full tomorrow. We all intuitively know that there is something better--heaven, a kingdom--in another life to come, but Jesus tells us, "Yeah, that's coming and it's gonna be great, but, I'm telling you, the Kingdom's already here! Don't wait to start living that life--I'm here with you now!" The true children of the kingdom--the sons and daughters of God, the royal priesthood--are to be the incarnation of that kingdom and its Savior LORD. One writer says, "Believers are a dime-a-dozen nowadays. What the world needs is people who believe so much in another world that they cannot help but begin enacting it now."
An integral part of that present kingdom living is poverty. The freedom to be poor even if you have the means to great wealth. God calls some Christians to high incomes. Is that wrong? No. But He calls all kingdom children to use their income (whether high or low) to give freely to those in need. It is the means to spread the kingdom further and deeper. When we cling to our worldly wealth or use it for our own self-absorbed enjoyment and pleasure we are "receiving [our] comfort in full." (remember what Jesus said?) Woe to us! Complete ownership or possession of this fluid, conceptual, yet real Kingdom is only fully realized by embracing what would be considered poverty by the world. The freedom to be poor allows us to grasp (or own) fully the power, the pleasure, the joy and the beauty of, the betterness of this Kingdom. Only when we have relinquished our grip on this world's mammon and passing pleasures, on our own pride and self-righteousness and embraced the richness of Christ's holiness and pro-active love, the freedom of poverty can we really own the kingdom. When we are the poor (in so many physical and spiritual ways) then the kingdom of God will be ours!
How can the possession, ownership, rights to the kingdom of God be compared to or contrasted with receiving comfort in full? We know that rich people can enter into the kingdom, so what does it mean for the kingdom of God to be "yours?"
I think sometimes we think of the kingdom in too concrete or "boxed-in" terms. Jesus compared the kingdom to many very different things, events, actions, people and said that it is here, coming, in us and among us. How do you box that up? All this cannot be packaged into something so cut and dry as eternal salvation or "heaven." Yes, the kingdom is, in part, heaven, and it is salvation, but it is also so much more. Ushered in by grace and love and received by given faith, the Kingdom is a lifestyle of love, of faith, of good deeds, of striving to be perfectly holy like our Lord and Father--a radical new value system.
The kingdom of Heaven, of God, is here, now. It is today, this generation; the redeemed lifestyle of the redeemed, we live now with hope, and we LIVE! We live by faith with confident hope toward a future and perfect life that knows no death. The kingdom of God is a preview taste today of a beautiful life to be lived in full tomorrow. We all intuitively know that there is something better--heaven, a kingdom--in another life to come, but Jesus tells us, "Yeah, that's coming and it's gonna be great, but, I'm telling you, the Kingdom's already here! Don't wait to start living that life--I'm here with you now!" The true children of the kingdom--the sons and daughters of God, the royal priesthood--are to be the incarnation of that kingdom and its Savior LORD. One writer says, "Believers are a dime-a-dozen nowadays. What the world needs is people who believe so much in another world that they cannot help but begin enacting it now."
An integral part of that present kingdom living is poverty. The freedom to be poor even if you have the means to great wealth. God calls some Christians to high incomes. Is that wrong? No. But He calls all kingdom children to use their income (whether high or low) to give freely to those in need. It is the means to spread the kingdom further and deeper. When we cling to our worldly wealth or use it for our own self-absorbed enjoyment and pleasure we are "receiving [our] comfort in full." (remember what Jesus said?) Woe to us! Complete ownership or possession of this fluid, conceptual, yet real Kingdom is only fully realized by embracing what would be considered poverty by the world. The freedom to be poor allows us to grasp (or own) fully the power, the pleasure, the joy and the beauty of, the betterness of this Kingdom. Only when we have relinquished our grip on this world's mammon and passing pleasures, on our own pride and self-righteousness and embraced the richness of Christ's holiness and pro-active love, the freedom of poverty can we really own the kingdom. When we are the poor (in so many physical and spiritual ways) then the kingdom of God will be ours!
Thursday, November 27, 2008
With ALL . . . (part 2)
"You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the great and first commandment."
--Jesus
[All means all, but how to live out such a radical command in a world that seems to demand that we "have" certain things in our lives?]
This will always be a struggle. This is something that I've struggled with and still do. It's too easy to sugar-coat and dilute and over-contextualize what Jesus clearly states in His teachings til we can say that this doesn't apply to me or that it meant something else or it's just . . . just . . . but Jesus WAS radical. We know how popular He was with great multitudes following Him everywhere, but there were also many more who like the Rich Young Ruler turned away from following Him, turned away from eternal life because He was a little too radical. Because He said stuff that went contrary to common sense and made demands that can only be made by a Master to His slaves as a King to His people. But the people that turned away weren't hung up on nuances and hyperbole and wondering if Jesus really meant everything He said. They understood Him. And they would not renounce all that they had. Intellectually. Materially. Familially. They turned away from Jesus. And crucified Him.
And it's a struggle for us. It's not a single battle, but a war with campaigns and many battles. But the glorious power of Jesus' grace promises that as we put on the armor and wade into battle day after day, fighting our hearts-- fears, lusts, idols, hate, and pride-- we will be more than conquerors THROUGH HIM! Like Cassie said (in our facebook discussion), we can't do this on our own. If we sound like a broken record, that's ok, because it's essential that the record break and repeat this part of the song . . . over and over and over, every day for the rest of our lives. Because this IS our life-- HE is our life! John 15:5-- "For without Me, you can do nothing."And that's the basis for living free from materialism and love for people and things and ideas that exists outside of a love for God. Because Christ is our life! Colossians 1:16 tells me that I have no reason for existing other than for Christ. And so if there is anything in my life that has a reason for existing outside of Christ then that thing must be "counted as loss."
We need to critically examine each thing in our lives. And where Christ is not pre-eminently dominating, where we cannot say "Christ is our LIFE," there must be radical change, surgical and revolutionary. I guess a good question to ask of everything and everyone in your life is, "Does this world or my heart demand that I have this in my life or has God sovereignly placed this in my life?" and then if it has been put into your hands by your God, ask, "Do I love and enjoy this person or thing apart from Christ? or in Him, through Him, because of Him, and FOR Him?"
Sometimes we'll have to get tough, sometimes we'll have to be creative. Often we'll need both. But through the pain (and there WILL be pain) we'll find in our Husband Christ a joy fulfilled and unspeakable. And can the passing pain compare to the indestructible joy? No, I promise you it cannot.
--Jesus
[All means all, but how to live out such a radical command in a world that seems to demand that we "have" certain things in our lives?]
This will always be a struggle. This is something that I've struggled with and still do. It's too easy to sugar-coat and dilute and over-contextualize what Jesus clearly states in His teachings til we can say that this doesn't apply to me or that it meant something else or it's just . . . just . . . but Jesus WAS radical. We know how popular He was with great multitudes following Him everywhere, but there were also many more who like the Rich Young Ruler turned away from following Him, turned away from eternal life because He was a little too radical. Because He said stuff that went contrary to common sense and made demands that can only be made by a Master to His slaves as a King to His people. But the people that turned away weren't hung up on nuances and hyperbole and wondering if Jesus really meant everything He said. They understood Him. And they would not renounce all that they had. Intellectually. Materially. Familially. They turned away from Jesus. And crucified Him.
And it's a struggle for us. It's not a single battle, but a war with campaigns and many battles. But the glorious power of Jesus' grace promises that as we put on the armor and wade into battle day after day, fighting our hearts-- fears, lusts, idols, hate, and pride-- we will be more than conquerors THROUGH HIM! Like Cassie said (in our facebook discussion), we can't do this on our own. If we sound like a broken record, that's ok, because it's essential that the record break and repeat this part of the song . . . over and over and over, every day for the rest of our lives. Because this IS our life-- HE is our life! John 15:5-- "For without Me, you can do nothing."And that's the basis for living free from materialism and love for people and things and ideas that exists outside of a love for God. Because Christ is our life! Colossians 1:16 tells me that I have no reason for existing other than for Christ. And so if there is anything in my life that has a reason for existing outside of Christ then that thing must be "counted as loss."
We need to critically examine each thing in our lives. And where Christ is not pre-eminently dominating, where we cannot say "Christ is our LIFE," there must be radical change, surgical and revolutionary. I guess a good question to ask of everything and everyone in your life is, "Does this world or my heart demand that I have this in my life or has God sovereignly placed this in my life?" and then if it has been put into your hands by your God, ask, "Do I love and enjoy this person or thing apart from Christ? or in Him, through Him, because of Him, and FOR Him?"
Sometimes we'll have to get tough, sometimes we'll have to be creative. Often we'll need both. But through the pain (and there WILL be pain) we'll find in our Husband Christ a joy fulfilled and unspeakable. And can the passing pain compare to the indestructible joy? No, I promise you it cannot.
Happy is . . .?
"Happy Thanksgiving!"
I think five or six of my friends texted me throughout the day just to say that today. Made me feel special that people were thinking of me even on their vacations. "Happy Thanksgiving." And it was, I guess. I enjoyed a lot of (too much) good food. Played football with my family. Laughed at the antics of my nieces and nephews, and just relaxed. Isn't that happy? Yeah, sure, but fulfilling? Satisfying?
Funny (actually sad): I gorged myself on a lavish lunch with turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, corn, all the dessert I couldn't fit into my stomach . . . but I continued to snack on those chocolate covered raisins all day. Even though I wasn't hungry! Why? Because, though my stomach was full, I wasn't satisfied. Happy Thanksgiving--sure, but there was something terrifyingly missing. Adriana got it right. She sent me this verse:
"Come into His presence with singing and into His courts with praise. Be thankful unto him and bless His name, for His mercy and love are everlasting, and His truth endures forever!"
Doesn't say anything about turkey or family or football. Don't get me wrong, I'm thankful for food, family, and fun, but as I experienced today, that thankfulness is pretty superficial, surface stuff. I can fill up my belly and score touchdowns on my older brother and say, "Thanks, God!" for all of that but if that's it . . . ? It's like standing on a mountain peak in Colorado at night with an indescribable, celestial quilt of stars and planets and moons filling a vast and trackless sky above my head, while I stare down at my little flashlight bulb for hours--thanking God for lightbulbs. Lightbulbs are pretty cool, but seriously . . . I gaze at the gift and miss the GLORY.
Adri sent me this verse at lunch time but I was too distracted and still missed it. Til now. What was the Psalmist thankful for? For mercy and love and truth that never ends, never runs out, and can never be outlived. For these beautiful, life-giving glories of God. These are the things that satisfy. Mercy, Love, and Truth, forever and ever--this is the GLORY of God.
I'm thankful for my family. But one day I'll leave them all to go to a land across the sea--for this God of mercy, love and truth is so much better than my family. I'm thankful for food. But one day I'll be glad to leave America, where I would never have to worry about my next meal, to go to a land where people die of starvation--every day--and God's provision will truly be a constant miracle of mercy. I'm thankful for football (and other sports). But I will gladly give up such frivolities for a life of hardship that is envigorated and empassioned by the joy of seeing the Kingdom of God wage unstoppable war against the kingdom of Satan in dark places using the weapons of mercy, love, and truth.
Yeah, it was a "Happy Thanksgiving." And I'm thankful for the things that brought that happiness. But, God, I beg You: give me the heart of this Psalmist; for he was not merely happy--he was satisfied!
I think five or six of my friends texted me throughout the day just to say that today. Made me feel special that people were thinking of me even on their vacations. "Happy Thanksgiving." And it was, I guess. I enjoyed a lot of (too much) good food. Played football with my family. Laughed at the antics of my nieces and nephews, and just relaxed. Isn't that happy? Yeah, sure, but fulfilling? Satisfying?
Funny (actually sad): I gorged myself on a lavish lunch with turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, corn, all the dessert I couldn't fit into my stomach . . . but I continued to snack on those chocolate covered raisins all day. Even though I wasn't hungry! Why? Because, though my stomach was full, I wasn't satisfied. Happy Thanksgiving--sure, but there was something terrifyingly missing. Adriana got it right. She sent me this verse:
"Come into His presence with singing and into His courts with praise. Be thankful unto him and bless His name, for His mercy and love are everlasting, and His truth endures forever!"
Doesn't say anything about turkey or family or football. Don't get me wrong, I'm thankful for food, family, and fun, but as I experienced today, that thankfulness is pretty superficial, surface stuff. I can fill up my belly and score touchdowns on my older brother and say, "Thanks, God!" for all of that but if that's it . . . ? It's like standing on a mountain peak in Colorado at night with an indescribable, celestial quilt of stars and planets and moons filling a vast and trackless sky above my head, while I stare down at my little flashlight bulb for hours--thanking God for lightbulbs. Lightbulbs are pretty cool, but seriously . . . I gaze at the gift and miss the GLORY.
Adri sent me this verse at lunch time but I was too distracted and still missed it. Til now. What was the Psalmist thankful for? For mercy and love and truth that never ends, never runs out, and can never be outlived. For these beautiful, life-giving glories of God. These are the things that satisfy. Mercy, Love, and Truth, forever and ever--this is the GLORY of God.
I'm thankful for my family. But one day I'll leave them all to go to a land across the sea--for this God of mercy, love and truth is so much better than my family. I'm thankful for food. But one day I'll be glad to leave America, where I would never have to worry about my next meal, to go to a land where people die of starvation--every day--and God's provision will truly be a constant miracle of mercy. I'm thankful for football (and other sports). But I will gladly give up such frivolities for a life of hardship that is envigorated and empassioned by the joy of seeing the Kingdom of God wage unstoppable war against the kingdom of Satan in dark places using the weapons of mercy, love, and truth.
Yeah, it was a "Happy Thanksgiving." And I'm thankful for the things that brought that happiness. But, God, I beg You: give me the heart of this Psalmist; for he was not merely happy--he was satisfied!
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
With all . . .
"He loves Thee too little who loves anything with Thee which he loves not for Thy sake."
--St. Augustine
This prayer by Augustine makes practical the first and greatest command, the essential mission of our lives: "Love the LORD your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind, and with all you strength." All necessitates an exhaustive fullness, a complete and focused singularity to our love for the LORD. All leaves no room for any other outside passions. No rivals. Does this sound extreme? Over-applicative? Too "radical?" But as a friend reminded me, can anything be too "radical" in love for the One who gives us physical life-- a beating heart and aspirating lungs-- and then, at the cost of the life of His only Son, gives us a new spiritual life-- the only thing that makes our physical lives worth living? No, there can be nothing radical at all about anything I might seek to do and to give my LORD out of love for Him. This is illustrated over and over again in the New Testament. Indeed, Jesus tells us that our love for our own families should be like hate compared with our love for Christ; He tells us that our love for HIM should utterly destroy our love for our possessions to the point that we give everything away to the poor in our passion for following Christ; and as if that doesn't quite cover it all, Christ declares that anyone who seeks and holds onto life to any extent above death outside of a love that follows Christ will forfeit his soul and the true life (that which comes by dying to this dead life).
But, I mean, surely the basic survival and satisfaction instincts are, at least in part, outisde of the demands of this spiritual life and exclusive love for God? no. ALL means ALL. Augustine had it right: "anything . . . which he loves not for Thy sake." This applies poignantly and constantly to my relations to food, to friends, to any clothing, books, car, job, hopes, goals and plans. It applies to my thought and to my writing. To my guitar and my time, my sleep. To my cell phone, my grades, my degree from the University. Applies to my computer, my music, and my movies. It applies to and must dominate every aspect of my life no matter how small, narrow, and seemingly insignificant. All means all.
My Lord, You shall have no rivals in my heart life. "Grant what Thou commandest, and command what Thou wilt." I am Yours alone.
--St. Augustine
This prayer by Augustine makes practical the first and greatest command, the essential mission of our lives: "Love the LORD your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind, and with all you strength." All necessitates an exhaustive fullness, a complete and focused singularity to our love for the LORD. All leaves no room for any other outside passions. No rivals. Does this sound extreme? Over-applicative? Too "radical?" But as a friend reminded me, can anything be too "radical" in love for the One who gives us physical life-- a beating heart and aspirating lungs-- and then, at the cost of the life of His only Son, gives us a new spiritual life-- the only thing that makes our physical lives worth living? No, there can be nothing radical at all about anything I might seek to do and to give my LORD out of love for Him. This is illustrated over and over again in the New Testament. Indeed, Jesus tells us that our love for our own families should be like hate compared with our love for Christ; He tells us that our love for HIM should utterly destroy our love for our possessions to the point that we give everything away to the poor in our passion for following Christ; and as if that doesn't quite cover it all, Christ declares that anyone who seeks and holds onto life to any extent above death outside of a love that follows Christ will forfeit his soul and the true life (that which comes by dying to this dead life).
But, I mean, surely the basic survival and satisfaction instincts are, at least in part, outisde of the demands of this spiritual life and exclusive love for God? no. ALL means ALL. Augustine had it right: "anything . . . which he loves not for Thy sake." This applies poignantly and constantly to my relations to food, to friends, to any clothing, books, car, job, hopes, goals and plans. It applies to my thought and to my writing. To my guitar and my time, my sleep. To my cell phone, my grades, my degree from the University. Applies to my computer, my music, and my movies. It applies to and must dominate every aspect of my life no matter how small, narrow, and seemingly insignificant. All means all.
My Lord, You shall have no rivals in my heart life. "Grant what Thou commandest, and command what Thou wilt." I am Yours alone.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Superman is dead. Who's the hero now?
What is a hero? Is he a strong, brave "superman" who saves many lives with his strength and courage? Yes. But if there were no more, then few of us would ever know a hero. The heroes we grew up with in the movies and comic books and cartoons saved the day by performing feats of physical ability and unmatched bravery when no one else could. But take away their superhuman strength, throw a little kryptonite into their lives and they become just like the rest of us. Just like the rest of us nothings.
No, a hero is usually much simpler than that. A hero is not necessarily someone who does things that no one else can-- a hero is someone who loves when no one else will. A hero makes you smile when everthing seems against you, and there is no reason to smile. A hero doesn't just save lives or "save the day"-- a hero saves the moment. Even if it is just for one person. Even if no one else ever knows about it. You see, in real life, heroes don't run and jump around in tights and flashy underwear, so sometimes it's hard to tell who the real heroes are. Most of us are so self-sufficient and independent that we rarely see a hero, but make no mistake, we all have a hero in our lives somewhere.
Heroes are not perfect. We all have our own form of kryptonite to battle, and most of us are not very heroic most of the time. Heroics demand only one powerfully energizing ideal: love. Love will drive us to deeds that are extraordinary in one way or another. Love is when we forget about ourselves and look around for someone in need. Love looks outward. It's not typical. It's not common. It's stronger than any other force-- hate, fear, mistrust. Love is above the average. It is a rare thing, and that's why heroes are all too rare these days. Because most of us have forgotten that love is stronger even than death, and we choose to live life fueled by greed or pride or some other form of death and ignore love. The heroes are dying.
But they're not dead yet.
No, a hero is usually much simpler than that. A hero is not necessarily someone who does things that no one else can-- a hero is someone who loves when no one else will. A hero makes you smile when everthing seems against you, and there is no reason to smile. A hero doesn't just save lives or "save the day"-- a hero saves the moment. Even if it is just for one person. Even if no one else ever knows about it. You see, in real life, heroes don't run and jump around in tights and flashy underwear, so sometimes it's hard to tell who the real heroes are. Most of us are so self-sufficient and independent that we rarely see a hero, but make no mistake, we all have a hero in our lives somewhere.
Heroes are not perfect. We all have our own form of kryptonite to battle, and most of us are not very heroic most of the time. Heroics demand only one powerfully energizing ideal: love. Love will drive us to deeds that are extraordinary in one way or another. Love is when we forget about ourselves and look around for someone in need. Love looks outward. It's not typical. It's not common. It's stronger than any other force-- hate, fear, mistrust. Love is above the average. It is a rare thing, and that's why heroes are all too rare these days. Because most of us have forgotten that love is stronger even than death, and we choose to live life fueled by greed or pride or some other form of death and ignore love. The heroes are dying.
But they're not dead yet.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Life in the Rearview Mirror (from life journal)
1 July 2003
"As I drove the family van down to Chambersburg today, I looked into the rearview mirrors, and saw my little sisters just sitting in the backseat reading, with not a care in the world. It seemed to me it wasn't too long ago that was me in the backseat with lil' bro Chris. How time flies by. Years, with 365 or 366 days in each of them seem to be simply a background now. A hopeless, meaningless jumble of numbers. My true and meaningful past is made up of a patchwork of memories that now seem more real than the numbers-- 1991, '92, '93, '97, '00, etc. Some memories make me laugh. Others make me grimace. Still others make me cry. How is it that I took life so carelessly for granted? I thought life was free. My biggest concerns used to be does "pretty Dana" really like me? Why do I have to clean my room? Am I the fastest in my class? How long can I hang out in the restroom at school before the teacher comes in to yell at me? Now it's all different. Well, not so different as more serious."
14 June 2003
"Growing up. Why? And why is it so hard to do? To deny my foolish puerile tendencies and pleasures, realizing that they are nothing more than left-over adolescent emotions-- the last remnants of a simple child-hood empty of worries or concerns. I now find that I must stay and "face the music." Turn and deal with my problems bluntly, realistically, and many times on my own. The fear of parents has translated from accidents like breaking a light-bulb into denting my brother's truck pulling out of the gas station. The cold, biting reality that nothing is free comes raining down on me in a hail of stinging costs and expenses. Time, which only a year ago I seemed to have such an over-abundance of, now is fed continuously into the depths of ravenous creatures like work and sleep. Friends become closer and more real in my life and yet create more conflicts emotionally. Freedom increases, and yet with freedom comes more bondage-- the bondage of responsibility, work, and money.
Many scars have been left on my heart, but there are two healers from the beginning of time that have worked better than any tonic or potion ever prescribed. These two healers are time and love."
"As I drove the family van down to Chambersburg today, I looked into the rearview mirrors, and saw my little sisters just sitting in the backseat reading, with not a care in the world. It seemed to me it wasn't too long ago that was me in the backseat with lil' bro Chris. How time flies by. Years, with 365 or 366 days in each of them seem to be simply a background now. A hopeless, meaningless jumble of numbers. My true and meaningful past is made up of a patchwork of memories that now seem more real than the numbers-- 1991, '92, '93, '97, '00, etc. Some memories make me laugh. Others make me grimace. Still others make me cry. How is it that I took life so carelessly for granted? I thought life was free. My biggest concerns used to be does "pretty Dana" really like me? Why do I have to clean my room? Am I the fastest in my class? How long can I hang out in the restroom at school before the teacher comes in to yell at me? Now it's all different. Well, not so different as more serious."
14 June 2003
"Growing up. Why? And why is it so hard to do? To deny my foolish puerile tendencies and pleasures, realizing that they are nothing more than left-over adolescent emotions-- the last remnants of a simple child-hood empty of worries or concerns. I now find that I must stay and "face the music." Turn and deal with my problems bluntly, realistically, and many times on my own. The fear of parents has translated from accidents like breaking a light-bulb into denting my brother's truck pulling out of the gas station. The cold, biting reality that nothing is free comes raining down on me in a hail of stinging costs and expenses. Time, which only a year ago I seemed to have such an over-abundance of, now is fed continuously into the depths of ravenous creatures like work and sleep. Friends become closer and more real in my life and yet create more conflicts emotionally. Freedom increases, and yet with freedom comes more bondage-- the bondage of responsibility, work, and money.
Many scars have been left on my heart, but there are two healers from the beginning of time that have worked better than any tonic or potion ever prescribed. These two healers are time and love."
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Excuse me, sir, where's the church?
I've been dreaming of a church. A church where the members are not each islands to themselves, but where each member is a part of each other's lives. Not just on Sunday, but always an integral part of life. Kind of like a body. One body. You don't just need your arm or your eye on Sunday. Why do we only need each other on Sunday? For that matter, pretty much all the churches I've been to around here don't even need each other on Sunday. We just show up, exchange a couple of greetings, file into our usual pews, scan the audience for visitors and make note of where they're sitting so we can avoid them afterwards, shake hands with five people around us after the second verse of the second song (thus fulfilling our duty of fellowship), enjoy the message--even take notes, feel a little conviction, then scurry quickly back to the safe insulation of our own private homes and wolf down whatever we're having for lunch . . . by ourselves.
I've been dreaming of a church that spends its money on the body and not the building. I've been dreaming of a church where walking through the doors means walking into open arms of brotherhood. I've been dreaming of a church where the people make me feel like I'm home instead of sitting back at a safe distance and saying, "Oh, look--a visitor. Good. I hope he likes our church and starts coming regularly, and our numbers grow, and we get bigger offerings." I've been dreaming of a church where the singing is led by the congregation, by its burning love for its Saviour and Head. I've been dreaming of a church where the members assemble out of a passionate desire to worship and learn of their Lord, where everyone is together because they WANT be there--not because they ought to be. I've been dreaming of a church that is free and knows it. I've been dreaming of a church where there truly is no Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, rich nor poor. I've been dreaming of a church where we're all one. One.
Christ, I know I'm part of your Body, but why do I feel so amputated? And where can I find the rest of Your body? Jesus, where's the Church?
I've been dreaming of a church that spends its money on the body and not the building. I've been dreaming of a church where walking through the doors means walking into open arms of brotherhood. I've been dreaming of a church where the people make me feel like I'm home instead of sitting back at a safe distance and saying, "Oh, look--a visitor. Good. I hope he likes our church and starts coming regularly, and our numbers grow, and we get bigger offerings." I've been dreaming of a church where the singing is led by the congregation, by its burning love for its Saviour and Head. I've been dreaming of a church where the members assemble out of a passionate desire to worship and learn of their Lord, where everyone is together because they WANT be there--not because they ought to be. I've been dreaming of a church that is free and knows it. I've been dreaming of a church where there truly is no Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, rich nor poor. I've been dreaming of a church where we're all one. One.
Christ, I know I'm part of your Body, but why do I feel so amputated? And where can I find the rest of Your body? Jesus, where's the Church?
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Death: Staring into the Mirror
A helicoptor is flying over the house. At 12:30 AM. It's almost certainly a life flight. Someone's dying right now. Someone's hurting. Someone's crying, someone's praying, begging, pleading with a God they've never talked to before.
So often we reduce death to heaven and hell. And heaven and hell are certainly the most important places in regards to death; they are ultimate . . . for the deceased. But for someone, death is only a mirror and a door to life forever changed. A door through which the living are forced without any answers to life's most bitter questions, nor any guidebook for that which lies beyond. Death changes lives. It's a mirror into which every loving friend, brother or sister, father or mother, even the mere thinking observer must gaze and reflect and respond or react.
There is a certain finality to death which somehow arouses the strongest emotions within every beating heart. My soul, numbed and cooled by books and reactions and conflicts over the preceding months of school, was seared to life last fall by the death of a dear African brother. When I was with Providence in Cameroon, something was dying inside of me--something I knew nothing about. Providence was one of the most passionate people I have ever met. I don't think I ever saw Providence but that he was wearing either a face-covering grin or a solemn scowl of deep thought. He would have nothing to do with the ordinary life. As he walked me down to the square the morning I said goodbye to the town of Sabga at the end of July, it was with sobering sadness but an even fiercer hope that he pledged his love and prayers to me along with his conviction that I would be back. And that morning, the ability to be content and passionate with an ordinary life died inside of me.
When I went back to the states, I could feel that death inside of me as I integrated myself back into ordinary life. My heart would not waste its passions on an ordinary life. The end of summer brought school. My fourth year of college and more of the same ordinary academic pursuits: literature, psychology, language. Nothing thrilled me, nothing broke my heart, nothing infuriated me. I lived a half-smile. I wished upon a heavy heart with eyes bereft of tears. Until Providence died. He was twenty-eight, and I cried for the first time in months. All the other squabbles and conflicts in my ordinary life seemed so small and acidic and I hated it all the more. Providence had been living an extraordinary life, walking everywhere with his smile, his Bible, and his backpack full of tracts. Why take him and leave me? Average, ordinary me, contributing nothing to eternity. I held my face in my hands for a long time, crawled into bed and wished the world would disappear. But I had to go back out and face my excruciatingly ordinary life . . . it was still there and demanding my attention.
I remembered when Providence took me along with him to visit all the sick people at Mbingo hospital. We spent the afternoon in the trama and surgical ward with people who had just lost eyes or limbs and still didn't know if they'd keep their lives. I talked to some of them and saw so much grief and hopelessness. I saw bodies ravaged by accidents and disease. They asked me questions I could not answer and when I'd seen all I could handle I went out and sat on a wall. But Providence was still in there. Still bending over some dying lady's bed and praying. Still talking with families of those in such pitiful conditions. Fervent, compassionate, never-tiring. Driven by love. He came outside and asked me to come in and pray with him for a boy. I went with him, but, humbled and embarassed speechless, could only stand by and let him pray. I begged God to instill in me such a passionate, selfless love as I witnessed in Providence.
And then he was gone. My heart ached. Felt like it was fastened to a wall, but someone was pulling hard and tearing it. I sat with my face buried in my hands looking into that mirror called death. Why should I go on with this ordinary life? I could quit school. Go back to Africa. Live like Providence did, traveling as far as he could, talking to everyone he could. But too many things in this ordinary life tied me down. I looked on, reading emails as I and my other brothers and sisters in Africa grieved Providence's passing. But I could do nothing.
Providence was welcomed into heaven last fall, the place for which he was created, but my heart broke, and I'll never be able to escape the vision of a dark gap left in the hedge. The hole where once an extraordinary life poured passion and energy and everything he could into everyone he could. And his prayer calling me back to Africa.
"The clocks have all stopped, the story's been told
This is your life, so how will it show?
No, you can't pretend that forever
Will never come knocking at your door.
Run through the flames,
Never look back.
What did you think that you came here for?"
--the Afters (One Moment Away)
So often we reduce death to heaven and hell. And heaven and hell are certainly the most important places in regards to death; they are ultimate . . . for the deceased. But for someone, death is only a mirror and a door to life forever changed. A door through which the living are forced without any answers to life's most bitter questions, nor any guidebook for that which lies beyond. Death changes lives. It's a mirror into which every loving friend, brother or sister, father or mother, even the mere thinking observer must gaze and reflect and respond or react.
There is a certain finality to death which somehow arouses the strongest emotions within every beating heart. My soul, numbed and cooled by books and reactions and conflicts over the preceding months of school, was seared to life last fall by the death of a dear African brother. When I was with Providence in Cameroon, something was dying inside of me--something I knew nothing about. Providence was one of the most passionate people I have ever met. I don't think I ever saw Providence but that he was wearing either a face-covering grin or a solemn scowl of deep thought. He would have nothing to do with the ordinary life. As he walked me down to the square the morning I said goodbye to the town of Sabga at the end of July, it was with sobering sadness but an even fiercer hope that he pledged his love and prayers to me along with his conviction that I would be back. And that morning, the ability to be content and passionate with an ordinary life died inside of me.
When I went back to the states, I could feel that death inside of me as I integrated myself back into ordinary life. My heart would not waste its passions on an ordinary life. The end of summer brought school. My fourth year of college and more of the same ordinary academic pursuits: literature, psychology, language. Nothing thrilled me, nothing broke my heart, nothing infuriated me. I lived a half-smile. I wished upon a heavy heart with eyes bereft of tears. Until Providence died. He was twenty-eight, and I cried for the first time in months. All the other squabbles and conflicts in my ordinary life seemed so small and acidic and I hated it all the more. Providence had been living an extraordinary life, walking everywhere with his smile, his Bible, and his backpack full of tracts. Why take him and leave me? Average, ordinary me, contributing nothing to eternity. I held my face in my hands for a long time, crawled into bed and wished the world would disappear. But I had to go back out and face my excruciatingly ordinary life . . . it was still there and demanding my attention.
I remembered when Providence took me along with him to visit all the sick people at Mbingo hospital. We spent the afternoon in the trama and surgical ward with people who had just lost eyes or limbs and still didn't know if they'd keep their lives. I talked to some of them and saw so much grief and hopelessness. I saw bodies ravaged by accidents and disease. They asked me questions I could not answer and when I'd seen all I could handle I went out and sat on a wall. But Providence was still in there. Still bending over some dying lady's bed and praying. Still talking with families of those in such pitiful conditions. Fervent, compassionate, never-tiring. Driven by love. He came outside and asked me to come in and pray with him for a boy. I went with him, but, humbled and embarassed speechless, could only stand by and let him pray. I begged God to instill in me such a passionate, selfless love as I witnessed in Providence.
And then he was gone. My heart ached. Felt like it was fastened to a wall, but someone was pulling hard and tearing it. I sat with my face buried in my hands looking into that mirror called death. Why should I go on with this ordinary life? I could quit school. Go back to Africa. Live like Providence did, traveling as far as he could, talking to everyone he could. But too many things in this ordinary life tied me down. I looked on, reading emails as I and my other brothers and sisters in Africa grieved Providence's passing. But I could do nothing.
Providence was welcomed into heaven last fall, the place for which he was created, but my heart broke, and I'll never be able to escape the vision of a dark gap left in the hedge. The hole where once an extraordinary life poured passion and energy and everything he could into everyone he could. And his prayer calling me back to Africa.
"The clocks have all stopped, the story's been told
This is your life, so how will it show?
No, you can't pretend that forever
Will never come knocking at your door.
Run through the flames,
Never look back.
What did you think that you came here for?"
--the Afters (One Moment Away)
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Impossible
Do I believe in the impossible? Do you? Why not? And why do I assume that you do not? Is it because that's the way we live, talk, act, think? Or rather, have conditioned ourselves to think.
Do we really not believe in the impossible? Then what is it inside of ourselves that draws us to the impossible when others reveal it, speak of it, only to reject it when it becomes too close to real, yet too inexplicable to our well-trained conventions? Could it be the truth?
What is impossible? To some it is very truth itself. What they have not seen, touched, or heard cannot be real. No, in fact, even if they have sensed it, if they cannot explain it, then it cannot be real. It was the senses playing tricks, some bad left-over gruel as Dickens' Scrooge might say.
And so to these people, they would not believe the impossible if they saw it with their very eyes.
Impossible is, in fact then, a state of mind. Fear often controls us more than any other emotion or conviction. We fear the pain, the unpleasantness, the awkwardness. We fear anger and failure and loss. We fear each other, our enemies, and even those we love most. But most of all, we fear the unknown. This is where impossible is born. In the fear of the unknown. We've never seen it, we don't know about it, it doesn't fit into any of our boxes or systems, so naturally we fear. The fear of the unknown is perhaps the strongest of all, because we have no way to fight it. And so we respond the same way my older brothers used to respond to me when I was being obnoxious and annoying: "ignore it and it will go away." So we ignore it. We deny its existence. We deny even its possibility; we label it-- it's impossible. Not reality.
But is it? Really?
"You can't see gravity, but it still exists." A poor example often used to try to prove the existence of God. Trying prove the possibility of a thing commonly thought impossible is different. Still the principle applies. Conventional wisdom tells us that certain things are impossible: a stairway to heaven; a tunnel to China; a true disappearing act; a one-eyed, one-horned, flying purple people-eater. But what are these labels of impossible based upon? An argument from silence. The fact that we've never seen one. So seriously, what else is called impossible and accepted as such? Suppose it's only because we haven't yet opened the right door?
Now, lest we get carried away and start jumping off buildings in attempts to fly, let me say that I'm not trying to prove the existence or the possibility of anything. I'm just traveling a road of thought.
Let's remember that impossible is actually a reality confirmed by God Himself (Mk 10:27). Jesus' disciples were confused-- worse-- they were filled with consternation and, without doubt, fear itself. "Who can avoid death, if even the richest, most law-abiding, moral man is condemned?" And, yes, Jesus confirms their fears, "With people it is impossible to avoid death." And so there are certain things that are impossible-- under certain conditions. "With people . . . " There is the reality that most of us live in. We all know (in our right minds) that there are many things that are impossible with people. If left only up to people. But that's an if that doesn't have to be reality. You see, in the same sentence Jesus says "but not with God; for all things are possible with God." All things . . . do you believe that? All things. A camel can pass through the eye of a needle. A rich man can enter into the kingdom of God (why doesn't that shock us Americans?). Blind men can see. Cripples can dance. The deaf can hear the mute sing, and dead men can get up and live again. Here. Now. All things. Reality. Do you believe it? Do you live in it? What is impossible to you?
Many people today claim to have witnessed or even experienced miracles. Some people say the age of miracles passed into history with the death of the last New Testament apostle. Some say there never was any miracle. They've never experienced one, but if they did, they would doubt their senses or state of mind instead of recognizing the hand of God. Would you?
What is impossible? What reality do you live in? The reality of all possible? Jesus has something to say about this reality. Mark records a powerful statement just before Jesus casts a demon out of a boy. The disciples tried and failed. The father of the boy was struggling with unbelief. His plea for help was disclaimed with "if you can do anything . . ." "If you can? All things are possible to him who believes." There was authority in those words. Authority from heaven. Authority that changed this man's plea from "if you can do anything" to "I believe! Help my unbelief!" Authority that changed reality. You know the end. A demon who was overpowering to every other human attempt was subdued by the impossibility-destroying power of God. Impossible? Depends. Do you believe?
Not so many things are impossible when you're living in the reality of Divine Power.
Do we really not believe in the impossible? Then what is it inside of ourselves that draws us to the impossible when others reveal it, speak of it, only to reject it when it becomes too close to real, yet too inexplicable to our well-trained conventions? Could it be the truth?
What is impossible? To some it is very truth itself. What they have not seen, touched, or heard cannot be real. No, in fact, even if they have sensed it, if they cannot explain it, then it cannot be real. It was the senses playing tricks, some bad left-over gruel as Dickens' Scrooge might say.
And so to these people, they would not believe the impossible if they saw it with their very eyes.
Impossible is, in fact then, a state of mind. Fear often controls us more than any other emotion or conviction. We fear the pain, the unpleasantness, the awkwardness. We fear anger and failure and loss. We fear each other, our enemies, and even those we love most. But most of all, we fear the unknown. This is where impossible is born. In the fear of the unknown. We've never seen it, we don't know about it, it doesn't fit into any of our boxes or systems, so naturally we fear. The fear of the unknown is perhaps the strongest of all, because we have no way to fight it. And so we respond the same way my older brothers used to respond to me when I was being obnoxious and annoying: "ignore it and it will go away." So we ignore it. We deny its existence. We deny even its possibility; we label it-- it's impossible. Not reality.
But is it? Really?
"You can't see gravity, but it still exists." A poor example often used to try to prove the existence of God. Trying prove the possibility of a thing commonly thought impossible is different. Still the principle applies. Conventional wisdom tells us that certain things are impossible: a stairway to heaven; a tunnel to China; a true disappearing act; a one-eyed, one-horned, flying purple people-eater. But what are these labels of impossible based upon? An argument from silence. The fact that we've never seen one. So seriously, what else is called impossible and accepted as such? Suppose it's only because we haven't yet opened the right door?
Now, lest we get carried away and start jumping off buildings in attempts to fly, let me say that I'm not trying to prove the existence or the possibility of anything. I'm just traveling a road of thought.
Let's remember that impossible is actually a reality confirmed by God Himself (Mk 10:27). Jesus' disciples were confused-- worse-- they were filled with consternation and, without doubt, fear itself. "Who can avoid death, if even the richest, most law-abiding, moral man is condemned?" And, yes, Jesus confirms their fears, "With people it is impossible to avoid death." And so there are certain things that are impossible-- under certain conditions. "With people . . . " There is the reality that most of us live in. We all know (in our right minds) that there are many things that are impossible with people. If left only up to people. But that's an if that doesn't have to be reality. You see, in the same sentence Jesus says "but not with God; for all things are possible with God." All things . . . do you believe that? All things. A camel can pass through the eye of a needle. A rich man can enter into the kingdom of God (why doesn't that shock us Americans?). Blind men can see. Cripples can dance. The deaf can hear the mute sing, and dead men can get up and live again. Here. Now. All things. Reality. Do you believe it? Do you live in it? What is impossible to you?
Many people today claim to have witnessed or even experienced miracles. Some people say the age of miracles passed into history with the death of the last New Testament apostle. Some say there never was any miracle. They've never experienced one, but if they did, they would doubt their senses or state of mind instead of recognizing the hand of God. Would you?
What is impossible? What reality do you live in? The reality of all possible? Jesus has something to say about this reality. Mark records a powerful statement just before Jesus casts a demon out of a boy. The disciples tried and failed. The father of the boy was struggling with unbelief. His plea for help was disclaimed with "if you can do anything . . ." "If you can? All things are possible to him who believes." There was authority in those words. Authority from heaven. Authority that changed this man's plea from "if you can do anything" to "I believe! Help my unbelief!" Authority that changed reality. You know the end. A demon who was overpowering to every other human attempt was subdued by the impossibility-destroying power of God. Impossible? Depends. Do you believe?
Not so many things are impossible when you're living in the reality of Divine Power.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Write.
So you want to be a writer? Well, then write.
That's it?
Makes sense, doesn't it? You want to be a swimmer, you swim. You want to be a singer, you sing. You want to be fighter, you fight. Want to be a builder, you build. You want to be a writer, write. Simple.
But not.
What do I write about? Can I just sit down and write? No inspiration pushing me, driving me, compelling me to write? Who wants to read scribbles and babble? Do I not need a reason to write? A mission? A point, a goal?
What is your goal? To be a writer. Then write.
But that's not it-- is it?
No, you don't want to be a writer. You love to write. But more than that, you love to change. To change yourself, to be changed, to feel yourself and see yourself changed. But just as much, you love to change others. You love to, you desire so badly for others to join you in change. To live the change you've felt in your heart. That's your heart-- your passion. Have I got it?
No. You got part of it. It's deeper. Much deeper. For I see within myself no change. And that's what drives my desire to write. Notice: I say within myself. Yeah, I've changed much on the outside. Hair. Clothes. Music. Other things maybe. That's change you can put a finger on. Only a finger. But the heart . . .
Scars. And spreading like a leprous scab is a scar that gathers its covering across my heart to prevent change, to retard passion, to suffocate love. And all my radical, sincere, passionate outward change is discovered to be merely an emotional wave that washes over my face leaving a new piece of the facade with each new inundation.
So where does that leave me? Desiring to change? Of course. But isn't everyone? How strongly do I desire to change? Or should I ask, How deeply do I love the warm, calming shallow water? And somehow it helps to know I'm not alone. For as Mark Hall confesses, we are both
“Fearless warriors in a picket fence,
reckless abandon wrapped in common sense,
deep water faith in the shallow end.”
And though our eyes are “wide open to the differences” we are trapped in the strongest web of all-- our desires . . . for the picket fence; for the natural, instinctual common sense; for that easy and calm shallow end.
That's why I want to write. To change. To tell you not to be like them-- or me. To lift up my shirt, reveal my scabby, scarred heart. To remind myself of the passion I once was. To try once again to convince myself . . . to change.
That's it.
That's it?
Makes sense, doesn't it? You want to be a swimmer, you swim. You want to be a singer, you sing. You want to be fighter, you fight. Want to be a builder, you build. You want to be a writer, write. Simple.
But not.
What do I write about? Can I just sit down and write? No inspiration pushing me, driving me, compelling me to write? Who wants to read scribbles and babble? Do I not need a reason to write? A mission? A point, a goal?
What is your goal? To be a writer. Then write.
But that's not it-- is it?
No, you don't want to be a writer. You love to write. But more than that, you love to change. To change yourself, to be changed, to feel yourself and see yourself changed. But just as much, you love to change others. You love to, you desire so badly for others to join you in change. To live the change you've felt in your heart. That's your heart-- your passion. Have I got it?
No. You got part of it. It's deeper. Much deeper. For I see within myself no change. And that's what drives my desire to write. Notice: I say within myself. Yeah, I've changed much on the outside. Hair. Clothes. Music. Other things maybe. That's change you can put a finger on. Only a finger. But the heart . . .
Scars. And spreading like a leprous scab is a scar that gathers its covering across my heart to prevent change, to retard passion, to suffocate love. And all my radical, sincere, passionate outward change is discovered to be merely an emotional wave that washes over my face leaving a new piece of the facade with each new inundation.
So where does that leave me? Desiring to change? Of course. But isn't everyone? How strongly do I desire to change? Or should I ask, How deeply do I love the warm, calming shallow water? And somehow it helps to know I'm not alone. For as Mark Hall confesses, we are both
“Fearless warriors in a picket fence,
reckless abandon wrapped in common sense,
deep water faith in the shallow end.”
And though our eyes are “wide open to the differences” we are trapped in the strongest web of all-- our desires . . . for the picket fence; for the natural, instinctual common sense; for that easy and calm shallow end.
That's why I want to write. To change. To tell you not to be like them-- or me. To lift up my shirt, reveal my scabby, scarred heart. To remind myself of the passion I once was. To try once again to convince myself . . . to change.
That's it.
What If Jesus Meant Everything He Said?
You’ve heard from your mother, your father, your professor, the teenager at work, all the best wisdom man can give you. And it makes sense—if there is no life after this one. However, I am a disciple of Christ. I look for a city not built by the wisdom of man. Sometimes in that search Christ leads me to things that don’t make sense. So then is that to be rejected? Because it’s not logical, because it doesn’t make sense? What Christ said about self-denial, giving up everything to the poor, hating your family, not worry about the basic needs of life . . . was that really hyperbole? My question is, What if Jesus meant everything He said?
Thinking. Always thinking.
But ever getting closer?
I wonder.
Though I feel the loser,
I wonder
if it is not simply a difference
in values and what is
valuable. Make sense?
My life: nothing but His.
All this world’s gloss
I’m counting it loss,
Losing the dross,
Seeking the kingdom first,
Seeking for better or worse
That fount to quench all thirst.
And I wonder,
Did Jesus really mean
everything He said?
The riches, pleasures, and comforts of this earth are something to be laughed at, not clung to.
If our great God (with Whom nothing is impossible) leads a husband to a "comfortable", established life in a civilized culture where the family can rely on his job or church support and the local health facilities and where they'll have a set routine everyday where the husband won't have to travel much either alone or with the family . . . then he’d be reasonable. Then you could understand. Then that man would be “responsible.”
But if He leads a husband to a ministry where from day to day, year to year he is completely trusting God for his financial income, where there is no hospital or even clinic just down the road, where you have to boil your drinking water, shake out your shoes every morning and bleach your eating dishes (such as they might be). Where the family might move to a new home every three years, where the persecution is vicious and your enemies are everywhere. Where each day you awake and place the protection and provision of your family completely in your God's hands-- and you know that you have no other choice because there's too much against you for you to take care of them in your own power. Where you believe in and see miracles as God's normal working . . . then, that’s hyper-radical, unreasonable, irresponsible, because there's no way to raise a family in a lifestyle like that.
He should have, of course, done the Apostle Paul thing. Only single males can follow Jesus like that. I mean Jesus couldn’t really have meant for the principles and outright commands He gave in Luke 9:23, 24, 57-62; 12:4-7, 22-34; 14:26-33; 18:18-30; 21:1-4 to be applied to ALL Christians-- even wives and children!
But that quiet, firm voice will not leave us alone: What if Jesus really meant everything He said?
Matthew 5:38-48-- “You have heard that it was said, 'An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.' But I say to you, Do not resist the one who is evil. But if anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also. And if anyone would sue you and take your tunic, let him have your cloak as well. And if anyone forces you to go one mile, go with him two miles. Give to the one who begs from you, and do not refuse the one who would borrow from you. You have heard that it was said, 'You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.' But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be sons of your Father who is in heaven. For he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust. For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have? Do not even the tax collectors do the same? And if you greet only your brothers, what more are you doing than others? Do not even the Gentiles do the same? You therefore must be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect.”
Matthew 16:24-27-- “Then Jesus told his disciples, 'If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow Me. For whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it. For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world and forfeits his life? Or what shall a man give in return for his life? For the Son of Man is going to come with his angels in the glory of his Father, and then He will repay each person according to what he has done.' "
Luke 14:25-33-- "Now great crowds accompanied him, and he turned and said to them,
'If anyone comes to me and does not hate his own father and mother and wife and children and brothers and sisters, yes, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple. Whoever does not bear his own cross and come after me cannot be my disciple. For which of you, desiring to build a tower, does not first sit down and count the cost, whether he has enough to complete it? Otherwise, when he has laid a foundation and is not able to finish, all who see it begin to mock him, saying, "This man began to build and was not able to finish." Or what king, going out to encounter another king in war, will not sit down first and deliberate whether he is able with ten thousand to meet him who comes against him with twenty thousand? And if not, while the other is yet a great way off, he sends a delegation and asks for terms of peace. So therefore, any one of you who does not renounce all that he has cannot be my disciple.' "
-----------------------------------------
In private silence now sit I and think
and in oceans of questions softly sink.
To find some peace, a quiet search
and thus my heart ever yearns.
Head held in hands
to listen to the distant lands
cry out for hope, a desperate cry.
And I-- where am I?
Clinging, ever clinging
to this sinking
earth and treasures held in Fine land's bosom.
But what will I give to the King of heaven?
Shall I give all?
Yes, I must give all
and gladly, for my life is not my own
but his and ever shall be so.
So what future then awaits me
as in darkness now I strain to see
the path so far ahead?
It is not mine to know-- I must be led
and that by One more wise
more loving than my mind's
imaginations can surmise.
And can I fear when led by
such a kind and faithful Eye?
Though fulfilled be darkest fears
of life alone and lonely tears,
though I be despised
and seen as fool in man's full eyes
of earthly wisdom,
though life be lived in
separation, lived alone and my heart wrenched
away from a human love, unfulfilled yet unquenched,
still I will love Him,
still I will praise Him,
still I will seek His kingdom first
with a desperate hunger, unquenchable thirst.
And when my life is at an end,
my head once more held in my hand
my thoughts will wander back across
the years of joy through painful loss.
And then I'll lift my hands
and praise the great I AM
and rush to meet my Husband Christ
who made worthwhile a dying life.
He'll bid me enter to His rest,
"Fear not, for naught but gain is found in death."
----------------
And yet, I am the worse, for I am a hypocrite living a life which bears no semblance to the message I preach. Jesus, save me from myself.
Thinking. Always thinking.
But ever getting closer?
I wonder.
Though I feel the loser,
I wonder
if it is not simply a difference
in values and what is
valuable. Make sense?
My life: nothing but His.
All this world’s gloss
I’m counting it loss,
Losing the dross,
Seeking the kingdom first,
Seeking for better or worse
That fount to quench all thirst.
And I wonder,
Did Jesus really mean
everything He said?
The riches, pleasures, and comforts of this earth are something to be laughed at, not clung to.
If our great God (with Whom nothing is impossible) leads a husband to a "comfortable", established life in a civilized culture where the family can rely on his job or church support and the local health facilities and where they'll have a set routine everyday where the husband won't have to travel much either alone or with the family . . . then he’d be reasonable. Then you could understand. Then that man would be “responsible.”
But if He leads a husband to a ministry where from day to day, year to year he is completely trusting God for his financial income, where there is no hospital or even clinic just down the road, where you have to boil your drinking water, shake out your shoes every morning and bleach your eating dishes (such as they might be). Where the family might move to a new home every three years, where the persecution is vicious and your enemies are everywhere. Where each day you awake and place the protection and provision of your family completely in your God's hands-- and you know that you have no other choice because there's too much against you for you to take care of them in your own power. Where you believe in and see miracles as God's normal working . . . then, that’s hyper-radical, unreasonable, irresponsible, because there's no way to raise a family in a lifestyle like that.
He should have, of course, done the Apostle Paul thing. Only single males can follow Jesus like that. I mean Jesus couldn’t really have meant for the principles and outright commands He gave in Luke 9:23, 24, 57-62; 12:4-7, 22-34; 14:26-33; 18:18-30; 21:1-4 to be applied to ALL Christians-- even wives and children!
But that quiet, firm voice will not leave us alone: What if Jesus really meant everything He said?
Matthew 5:38-48-- “You have heard that it was said, 'An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.' But I say to you, Do not resist the one who is evil. But if anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also. And if anyone would sue you and take your tunic, let him have your cloak as well. And if anyone forces you to go one mile, go with him two miles. Give to the one who begs from you, and do not refuse the one who would borrow from you. You have heard that it was said, 'You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.' But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be sons of your Father who is in heaven. For he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust. For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have? Do not even the tax collectors do the same? And if you greet only your brothers, what more are you doing than others? Do not even the Gentiles do the same? You therefore must be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect.”
Matthew 16:24-27-- “Then Jesus told his disciples, 'If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow Me. For whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it. For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world and forfeits his life? Or what shall a man give in return for his life? For the Son of Man is going to come with his angels in the glory of his Father, and then He will repay each person according to what he has done.' "
Luke 14:25-33-- "Now great crowds accompanied him, and he turned and said to them,
'If anyone comes to me and does not hate his own father and mother and wife and children and brothers and sisters, yes, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple. Whoever does not bear his own cross and come after me cannot be my disciple. For which of you, desiring to build a tower, does not first sit down and count the cost, whether he has enough to complete it? Otherwise, when he has laid a foundation and is not able to finish, all who see it begin to mock him, saying, "This man began to build and was not able to finish." Or what king, going out to encounter another king in war, will not sit down first and deliberate whether he is able with ten thousand to meet him who comes against him with twenty thousand? And if not, while the other is yet a great way off, he sends a delegation and asks for terms of peace. So therefore, any one of you who does not renounce all that he has cannot be my disciple.' "
-----------------------------------------
In private silence now sit I and think
and in oceans of questions softly sink.
To find some peace, a quiet search
and thus my heart ever yearns.
Head held in hands
to listen to the distant lands
cry out for hope, a desperate cry.
And I-- where am I?
Clinging, ever clinging
to this sinking
earth and treasures held in Fine land's bosom.
But what will I give to the King of heaven?
Shall I give all?
Yes, I must give all
and gladly, for my life is not my own
but his and ever shall be so.
So what future then awaits me
as in darkness now I strain to see
the path so far ahead?
It is not mine to know-- I must be led
and that by One more wise
more loving than my mind's
imaginations can surmise.
And can I fear when led by
such a kind and faithful Eye?
Though fulfilled be darkest fears
of life alone and lonely tears,
though I be despised
and seen as fool in man's full eyes
of earthly wisdom,
though life be lived in
separation, lived alone and my heart wrenched
away from a human love, unfulfilled yet unquenched,
still I will love Him,
still I will praise Him,
still I will seek His kingdom first
with a desperate hunger, unquenchable thirst.
And when my life is at an end,
my head once more held in my hand
my thoughts will wander back across
the years of joy through painful loss.
And then I'll lift my hands
and praise the great I AM
and rush to meet my Husband Christ
who made worthwhile a dying life.
He'll bid me enter to His rest,
"Fear not, for naught but gain is found in death."
----------------
And yet, I am the worse, for I am a hypocrite living a life which bears no semblance to the message I preach. Jesus, save me from myself.
Think Happier?
Tired hands cradle a tired head. A cracking heart sinks deeper into his chest cavity as the bubble of misery rises higher and higher in his throat. Tears tease his flickering eyelids with the threat of a flood, but they find no release and the emotions building up within the prison of his chest stubbornly press on his lungs. Ragged sighs try to grow into sobs, but a strangling anger chokes them back, and he breathes with a sort of growling groan, short, sharp and bitter.
--------------------------------
When you read that description of emotional pain, how does it make you feel? Depressed? Angry? Frustrated? Why? It's not because of the hardship of this man or boy or whoever he is. You don't even know why he is miserable, and it really doesn't matter. Because you're not sad for him. You're sad for yourself. You're thinking about all the things that have made or could make you feel that way. That painfully depressed. Yet it's only your depressing thoughts. It's not your life circumstances.
So, someone says, Think happier. Does that make a difference? I mean really, could that possibly even work? Sure it could. Our emotions are greatly influenced by the thoughts we let pass through our minds. You think what you read. The more colorful the words, the more vivid the thoughts. Think about what you read. When we consume our time feasting on the difficulties and struggles of life and all the things that seem to us unfair, we will certainly find ourselves to be unhappy and reveling in self-pity.
So think happier.
--------------------------------
When you read that description of emotional pain, how does it make you feel? Depressed? Angry? Frustrated? Why? It's not because of the hardship of this man or boy or whoever he is. You don't even know why he is miserable, and it really doesn't matter. Because you're not sad for him. You're sad for yourself. You're thinking about all the things that have made or could make you feel that way. That painfully depressed. Yet it's only your depressing thoughts. It's not your life circumstances.
So, someone says, Think happier. Does that make a difference? I mean really, could that possibly even work? Sure it could. Our emotions are greatly influenced by the thoughts we let pass through our minds. You think what you read. The more colorful the words, the more vivid the thoughts. Think about what you read. When we consume our time feasting on the difficulties and struggles of life and all the things that seem to us unfair, we will certainly find ourselves to be unhappy and reveling in self-pity.
So think happier.
One Bad Day (from Sketches of Life)
I shuffle down the sidewalk quiet and alone. Quite oddly alone, for there are hundreds passing me on my left. I avoid their obtrusive stares by turning my own upon the fountain and pool to my right. The railing occupies my right hand and side-- a buffer and a welcome distraction. The morning's rain has left rows of droplets clinging to the underside of the railing and hiding from the coming sun. I find some strange sympathy for these pathetic little water particles. I'd like to be hiding too. So I don't mind that they leave my fingers wet as my hand slides along the railing. It is not my practice to ignore my mankind brothers and sisters, but this day I must, for I find no happy thought within my heart to share abroad.
The sun stealthily curls its golden paint around a towering cloud, and the gilded edges threaten to make me smile. But I resist. A smile would be wasted upon such a ruined day. And besides, the sun is inanimate-- he won't care. Just like everyone else.
I begin to step out to cross the road looking up just in time to see the car. I stumble and step back trying to regain my balance. Forget my composure. Ruddy color flushes my cheeks and I seethe through my clenched teeth.
I toy with a regret that I didn't keep walking, head down, right out in front of that car. I know I shouldn't be thinking this way, but no one else feels bad, so I continue the self-pity party in my own little world. It's an addiction of sorts.
Staring straight ahead I stalk past the library, behind the Alumni building, and wind my way around the tables and chairs outside of the coffee shop. Those who notice me and offer their “Heyhowyadoin” receive my manufactured “Goodyou” with all the insincerity I can muster.
Down the long sidewalk to the back door of Graves, I stagger, almost there. I hope no one comes busting out of the door and runs me over. But it figures. I'd be surprised if no one did.
Brett's sitting in the lobby. I hope he doesn't notice me. I don't really feel like stopping or taking the time at all. Brett's always in a good mood and, what's worse, I know he'll actually care about my puny, selfish troubles. He'll ruin my pity party, so I sneak past him and trudge up the stairs to the second floor East. Leaning on the handle to room 223 I fall into the dim light and close the door behind me. Two steps and my bookbag hits the floor by my desk. One more and I'm at the air conditioner. Andrew has it set to “Freezeyourappendagesoff” as usual. But at least he's not in the room right now. As the polar wind ceases under my controlling hand I sigh half in relief, half in resignation. But I miss the numbing sound of the air. The silence screams my pathetic loneliness. Music. Flipping open my computer, my hands rise to the tie still squeezing my neck and my head totters twice before lolling over loosely to the left. Too tired to hold my head up is too tired. Draping the now-removed noose over the back of my chair I slide into my bed six inches off the floor. Forget the music. Sleep welcomes me home. The first open arms I've found all day.
The sun stealthily curls its golden paint around a towering cloud, and the gilded edges threaten to make me smile. But I resist. A smile would be wasted upon such a ruined day. And besides, the sun is inanimate-- he won't care. Just like everyone else.
I begin to step out to cross the road looking up just in time to see the car. I stumble and step back trying to regain my balance. Forget my composure. Ruddy color flushes my cheeks and I seethe through my clenched teeth.
I toy with a regret that I didn't keep walking, head down, right out in front of that car. I know I shouldn't be thinking this way, but no one else feels bad, so I continue the self-pity party in my own little world. It's an addiction of sorts.
Staring straight ahead I stalk past the library, behind the Alumni building, and wind my way around the tables and chairs outside of the coffee shop. Those who notice me and offer their “Heyhowyadoin” receive my manufactured “Goodyou” with all the insincerity I can muster.
Down the long sidewalk to the back door of Graves, I stagger, almost there. I hope no one comes busting out of the door and runs me over. But it figures. I'd be surprised if no one did.
Brett's sitting in the lobby. I hope he doesn't notice me. I don't really feel like stopping or taking the time at all. Brett's always in a good mood and, what's worse, I know he'll actually care about my puny, selfish troubles. He'll ruin my pity party, so I sneak past him and trudge up the stairs to the second floor East. Leaning on the handle to room 223 I fall into the dim light and close the door behind me. Two steps and my bookbag hits the floor by my desk. One more and I'm at the air conditioner. Andrew has it set to “Freezeyourappendagesoff” as usual. But at least he's not in the room right now. As the polar wind ceases under my controlling hand I sigh half in relief, half in resignation. But I miss the numbing sound of the air. The silence screams my pathetic loneliness. Music. Flipping open my computer, my hands rise to the tie still squeezing my neck and my head totters twice before lolling over loosely to the left. Too tired to hold my head up is too tired. Draping the now-removed noose over the back of my chair I slide into my bed six inches off the floor. Forget the music. Sleep welcomes me home. The first open arms I've found all day.
Painting the Picture
I've always wanted to be a writer. Ever since I was eleven or twelve, at least. And ever since I started writing papers for English classes in high school, people have been telling me that I have a natural gift for writing and that I should develop that gift. But it's not just that I have a natural aptitude for words-- I truly do love to write. It's not just words on a page. It's not just the shortest distance between A and B. It's an art form. It's creating, painting, building, drawing word by word, sentence by sentence, chapter by chapter, a picture, a form, a concept that, in the mind, can be seen, heard, touched and examined from all angles.
There is a picture that begins in my mind with no words. The picture grows, develops, becomes more and more beautiful, and, as I behold it, I am compelled deep from within to share that picture with others. I must transfer that picture, that form, that concept from my own mind to the minds of others by some means. And the more precisely, the more vividly, the more effectually I paint that picture in the minds of my readers, the more perfectly they will understand what has been in my mind. That is the message. The message is the transfer, but the transfer needs a more concrete vehicle. That is writing.
There is a picture that begins in my mind with no words. The picture grows, develops, becomes more and more beautiful, and, as I behold it, I am compelled deep from within to share that picture with others. I must transfer that picture, that form, that concept from my own mind to the minds of others by some means. And the more precisely, the more vividly, the more effectually I paint that picture in the minds of my readers, the more perfectly they will understand what has been in my mind. That is the message. The message is the transfer, but the transfer needs a more concrete vehicle. That is writing.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Life Worth Living
She's sitting in that chair again. It's 7:00 this evening and she's already in her nightgown. Watching “Wheel of Fortune.” Again. By herself again. It takes a strong woman to keep on living after her husband of fifty years leaves her all alone with his death. It's been five years now and it makes you wonder what life is all about. And with this question a lot of people come up empty.
How do you keep living? Half of yourself is torn away never to be touched or held or loved again until the forevermore reunites old friends. You are left in the fading dusk of your years and the greatest portion of your life is locked away in either the past or the grave. Your friends and family are all firmly entrenched in the lives they've been living for years, and their sincere condolences somehow never translated into renewed life for you. You are bereft of the energy and the drive to just get up and go. To go do something-- anything. To explore. To discover. To create. How do you find that passion? When it's gone . . . how do you go on living?
Yet, the question is not simply for those who find themselves at the end of their lives. No, millions will ask it all around the world today. In Africa a teenage boy longingly gazes at his calendar picture of New York City-- his dream for as long as he can remember-- and, realizing he will never in his life have enough money to go there, he resigns, drops the the picture into the fire and asks the question hopelessly. An upscale apartment door in London is slowly closed as a young man watches the wife he once loved more than anything, including his precious job and portfolio, walk out of his life. And he wonders why or how he should face tomorrow and the next day and the next. There is the mother in China who looks sadly on as her two children sit eating the same rice they've eaten at every meal, and she prepares to go to work in the same factory making the same towels for the rich Americans and is there anything more to life? Is there anything worth it?
And it's the twenty year-old at a college she disagrees with about everything. And she's rolling up debt as she lives a dorm lifestyle so foreign to real life that she wonders what it's really like. The B's and C's she receives, far from consoling, are never good enough and she doesn't really even know what she wants to do with her life. So as she unpacks her bags into her dorm room after another Christmas Break, she collapses onto her bed and, staring blankly through the wall, questions why she is there-- why she is even living. And as duty binds her to her circumstances, how does she go on?
When duty is not enough, how do you find that passion that makes life worth the consciousness. How do you go on? It doesn't come with the big city or with the wife of your youth or with a job or an American lifestyle. So what is it that makes life at the top, in the middle or at the bottom worth living? What is it that brings a smile to the face of the African man sitting on a dirt floor. What satisfies the Thai fisherman who sleeps tonight on his bamboo bed with nothing but a spear and a net?
What is it that we're all really looking for? Is it love? Is it security? Is it freedom? What is it that will bring the smile of peace to our lips? What is it that we're living this life for? There is nothing wrong with asking these questions. The problem arises when the only answer we can come up is “nothing.” And if there is nothing more to this life than that which we can see and hear and grasp with our physical bodies, than there really is nothing. Because we all know this physical body will one day once again become nothing. If there is a reality, it cannot be physical. Or if it is, then this is the best it gets. Pain, death, misery, failure, hopelessness, nothing. The best it gets?
I don't believe that. I believe that there is more to this life than that which we can see and hear and grasp physically, both now and forevermore. I cannot prove it, because I cannot see it, but that's faith. My faith is built on the evidence that lies within and all around. There is more, and the best is yet to come. I believe Him. And that is enough to go on.
How do you keep living? Half of yourself is torn away never to be touched or held or loved again until the forevermore reunites old friends. You are left in the fading dusk of your years and the greatest portion of your life is locked away in either the past or the grave. Your friends and family are all firmly entrenched in the lives they've been living for years, and their sincere condolences somehow never translated into renewed life for you. You are bereft of the energy and the drive to just get up and go. To go do something-- anything. To explore. To discover. To create. How do you find that passion? When it's gone . . . how do you go on living?
Yet, the question is not simply for those who find themselves at the end of their lives. No, millions will ask it all around the world today. In Africa a teenage boy longingly gazes at his calendar picture of New York City-- his dream for as long as he can remember-- and, realizing he will never in his life have enough money to go there, he resigns, drops the the picture into the fire and asks the question hopelessly. An upscale apartment door in London is slowly closed as a young man watches the wife he once loved more than anything, including his precious job and portfolio, walk out of his life. And he wonders why or how he should face tomorrow and the next day and the next. There is the mother in China who looks sadly on as her two children sit eating the same rice they've eaten at every meal, and she prepares to go to work in the same factory making the same towels for the rich Americans and is there anything more to life? Is there anything worth it?
And it's the twenty year-old at a college she disagrees with about everything. And she's rolling up debt as she lives a dorm lifestyle so foreign to real life that she wonders what it's really like. The B's and C's she receives, far from consoling, are never good enough and she doesn't really even know what she wants to do with her life. So as she unpacks her bags into her dorm room after another Christmas Break, she collapses onto her bed and, staring blankly through the wall, questions why she is there-- why she is even living. And as duty binds her to her circumstances, how does she go on?
When duty is not enough, how do you find that passion that makes life worth the consciousness. How do you go on? It doesn't come with the big city or with the wife of your youth or with a job or an American lifestyle. So what is it that makes life at the top, in the middle or at the bottom worth living? What is it that brings a smile to the face of the African man sitting on a dirt floor. What satisfies the Thai fisherman who sleeps tonight on his bamboo bed with nothing but a spear and a net?
What is it that we're all really looking for? Is it love? Is it security? Is it freedom? What is it that will bring the smile of peace to our lips? What is it that we're living this life for? There is nothing wrong with asking these questions. The problem arises when the only answer we can come up is “nothing.” And if there is nothing more to this life than that which we can see and hear and grasp with our physical bodies, than there really is nothing. Because we all know this physical body will one day once again become nothing. If there is a reality, it cannot be physical. Or if it is, then this is the best it gets. Pain, death, misery, failure, hopelessness, nothing. The best it gets?
I don't believe that. I believe that there is more to this life than that which we can see and hear and grasp physically, both now and forevermore. I cannot prove it, because I cannot see it, but that's faith. My faith is built on the evidence that lies within and all around. There is more, and the best is yet to come. I believe Him. And that is enough to go on.
The Libray (from Sketches of Life)
The library is a pleasant place to study. Sometimes. And depending where you go. There are those hairy monstrosities serving as study booths. Their shag carpet skin is quite a detestable sight, and one dares not think too deeply about what these furs have seen in the million years of service they've paid to the University. I opt for a table-- all my own. Less privacy but more space and no worries about what may come crawling forth from that nasty yellow rug that covers each cubicle.
I can spread out on my table. I can see all my missions and analytically choose which ones to ignore the longest. There are six chairs all around my table, but I needn't worry about any late party crashers dropping in to help me study. I'm upstairs, tucked away in the 800s. Chinatown they call it. That's because of all the Korean academy students immigrated to these tables and booths. But I like the Koreans. They mind their own business and are quite happy with me minding mine. And they don't tell me how to do it.
This is kind of like an old western town. It's a mixing pot of different lives. You shouldn't be surprised by who you meet here, but you know you will be. Here you'll find those who have a different value system about their lives and work and simply don't want to worry about everyone else's value systems and certainly find no use in talking with another human. Maybe you'll find those who simply don't have anyone to spend time with and are pushed away from those who do. Or maybe you'll find someone like me-- someone who's hiding. On the run you might say. Just needing some time to think in a place where nobody's watching, where nobody's trying to figure out what you're thinking about.
But I'm not alone, and I know it. As I slide my chair back and stretch, I look around. Gliding in between tables and chairs and booths in search of the drinking fountain, I am all too aware of the peripheral glances and the would-be covert, over-the-top-edge-of-the-booth, appraising stares. And it affects me. I am dressed well tonight and feel that people see me as well put together-- cool, even. It's merely an appearance, not a status I can actually live out, but I milk it with a swagger and an aloof boredom in my eyes. I like feeling confident and powerful; it's a feeling I don't often get to enjoy, so I revel in it-- never mind the hypocrisy. Besides, everyone's playing the part of something they are not. At least, everyone who gets noticed. And even when I'm on the run and in hiding, I still like to have respecting glances cast my way, I still want to be noticed-- just so long as they don't try to talk to me.
It's 10 o'clock now and I catch a glimpse of that library girl who's really nice but looks weird. She's bouncing from table to table as she moves towards the back of the second floor, towards the 800s. She stops quietly at each table or booth and I know what she's going to say to my quiet little study table. “The library's closing. Start heading out.” Begrudgingly I stand and shove books into my bag. I know that the library doesn't close until 10:15, but I don't mention it to the library girl. Instead I'll just mutter about it to myself. I'm only shallowly miffed and that because I piddled too much of my time away and only worked productively for about an hour. Deeper inside I'm glad they're kicking me out of the library. Gives me an excuse to close the books and forget about ancient British literature and how the adolescent mind develops its cognitive learning chemicals. Or whatever that psycho dude was saying. I have thirty minutes to find something more worthwhile to do, like goof off in the hallway of my dorm with normal people.
I can spread out on my table. I can see all my missions and analytically choose which ones to ignore the longest. There are six chairs all around my table, but I needn't worry about any late party crashers dropping in to help me study. I'm upstairs, tucked away in the 800s. Chinatown they call it. That's because of all the Korean academy students immigrated to these tables and booths. But I like the Koreans. They mind their own business and are quite happy with me minding mine. And they don't tell me how to do it.
This is kind of like an old western town. It's a mixing pot of different lives. You shouldn't be surprised by who you meet here, but you know you will be. Here you'll find those who have a different value system about their lives and work and simply don't want to worry about everyone else's value systems and certainly find no use in talking with another human. Maybe you'll find those who simply don't have anyone to spend time with and are pushed away from those who do. Or maybe you'll find someone like me-- someone who's hiding. On the run you might say. Just needing some time to think in a place where nobody's watching, where nobody's trying to figure out what you're thinking about.
But I'm not alone, and I know it. As I slide my chair back and stretch, I look around. Gliding in between tables and chairs and booths in search of the drinking fountain, I am all too aware of the peripheral glances and the would-be covert, over-the-top-edge-of-the-booth, appraising stares. And it affects me. I am dressed well tonight and feel that people see me as well put together-- cool, even. It's merely an appearance, not a status I can actually live out, but I milk it with a swagger and an aloof boredom in my eyes. I like feeling confident and powerful; it's a feeling I don't often get to enjoy, so I revel in it-- never mind the hypocrisy. Besides, everyone's playing the part of something they are not. At least, everyone who gets noticed. And even when I'm on the run and in hiding, I still like to have respecting glances cast my way, I still want to be noticed-- just so long as they don't try to talk to me.
It's 10 o'clock now and I catch a glimpse of that library girl who's really nice but looks weird. She's bouncing from table to table as she moves towards the back of the second floor, towards the 800s. She stops quietly at each table or booth and I know what she's going to say to my quiet little study table. “The library's closing. Start heading out.” Begrudgingly I stand and shove books into my bag. I know that the library doesn't close until 10:15, but I don't mention it to the library girl. Instead I'll just mutter about it to myself. I'm only shallowly miffed and that because I piddled too much of my time away and only worked productively for about an hour. Deeper inside I'm glad they're kicking me out of the library. Gives me an excuse to close the books and forget about ancient British literature and how the adolescent mind develops its cognitive learning chemicals. Or whatever that psycho dude was saying. I have thirty minutes to find something more worthwhile to do, like goof off in the hallway of my dorm with normal people.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
"We had each other an' that was enough"
Whatever happened to love in our society? I'm not talking about lustful passion that makes people do things in a moment which they will regret for a lifetime. I'm talking about a deeper passion that drives one to give up everything, to turn life all upside down and inside out for the capture of something far more worth it. A passion that drives a conscious sacrifice but never leaves its focus upon the sacrifice but always upon the object of the love. Whatever happened to hearing an older and wiser man chuckle with the twinkle in his eye, “We were young and perhaps foolish, but we loved each other, so we got married. An' we didn't have much at all, an' it was hard those days, but we had each other an' that was enough.” That was always enough.
But not anymore. “Each other” is simply not enough. Finances is the number one cause of divorce statistically. But not realistically. In America, almost everyone has more money than they need-- but no one has enough. It's not that they need more money; no, money is not the root of the problem at all. It's the love of money that is the “root of all evil.” The root of all these tragic divorces is love. A love for something you can never have all of and, therefore, never enough of.
Do you know why “each other” used to be enough? It was because they had all of the thing they truly loved most. They had all of each other and, therefore, always enough. If you could have all of the thing you love. If you could derive a lasting joy and pleasure from that object of your affection, you'd be satisfied. Unfortunately, we all-too-often set our love on things we can never fully possess, and in so doing, we never fully give ourselves over to the one who loves us, to the one who wants to be wholly ours. It's not the money that's the problem-- it's our love. What do you want? What's most precious? What do you love more than anything?
But not anymore. “Each other” is simply not enough. Finances is the number one cause of divorce statistically. But not realistically. In America, almost everyone has more money than they need-- but no one has enough. It's not that they need more money; no, money is not the root of the problem at all. It's the love of money that is the “root of all evil.” The root of all these tragic divorces is love. A love for something you can never have all of and, therefore, never enough of.
Do you know why “each other” used to be enough? It was because they had all of the thing they truly loved most. They had all of each other and, therefore, always enough. If you could have all of the thing you love. If you could derive a lasting joy and pleasure from that object of your affection, you'd be satisfied. Unfortunately, we all-too-often set our love on things we can never fully possess, and in so doing, we never fully give ourselves over to the one who loves us, to the one who wants to be wholly ours. It's not the money that's the problem-- it's our love. What do you want? What's most precious? What do you love more than anything?
Friday, February 22, 2008
The Millennials
I am part of a generation of potential. We are different from any other generation before us. We embrace causes and faith. We are relationship-oriented and stick together. We are driven and passionate. Unafraid of change, we rather anticipate it eagerly and with welcoming arms. Yes, we are locked and loaded, poised and ready to take over the world.
And I am scared to death. Because with all of our potential, we face far greater threats toward internal destruction than any previous generation. While we accept faith and gaze upon it with our open and admiring eye, very few of us actually find ourselves living by it. No, we are, in fact, as much our own god as the generation before us was theirs. And much talk of faith neither begs nor receives much from God.
Our relationships, though they provide a strength in unity, also present a proneness to the herd mentallity, being controlled by peer pressure rather than principle. While we are driven and passionate, much of that passion is wasted on the frivolity of movies and weekend parties.
What are our goals? What plans? Though we do have dreams-- big ones-- we see little need for goals and plans; we are seekers and explorers-- not settlers. We are living in a world of rapidly increasing opportunities in areas of travel and communication and the millennials are not a generation to sit still.
Our generation at its worst is unstable and faced with vicious and constant moral temptations. At its best it is dynamic, driven, well-equipped, and less self-focused than the generation before it. Many uncertainties remain for now, but with eyes open and arms extended to embrace monumental changes in everything from technology to politics to economics, this generation could change this downward-spiraling world it is about to take over. For the good.
And I am scared to death. Because with all of our potential, we face far greater threats toward internal destruction than any previous generation. While we accept faith and gaze upon it with our open and admiring eye, very few of us actually find ourselves living by it. No, we are, in fact, as much our own god as the generation before us was theirs. And much talk of faith neither begs nor receives much from God.
Our relationships, though they provide a strength in unity, also present a proneness to the herd mentallity, being controlled by peer pressure rather than principle. While we are driven and passionate, much of that passion is wasted on the frivolity of movies and weekend parties.
What are our goals? What plans? Though we do have dreams-- big ones-- we see little need for goals and plans; we are seekers and explorers-- not settlers. We are living in a world of rapidly increasing opportunities in areas of travel and communication and the millennials are not a generation to sit still.
Our generation at its worst is unstable and faced with vicious and constant moral temptations. At its best it is dynamic, driven, well-equipped, and less self-focused than the generation before it. Many uncertainties remain for now, but with eyes open and arms extended to embrace monumental changes in everything from technology to politics to economics, this generation could change this downward-spiraling world it is about to take over. For the good.
Computerless.
Without a computer now, I am borrowing my brother's at night and think this blog will be the best way to store my thoughts.
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