With a Little Help

I love that Jesus calls us friends. That's a big deal. It's so informal. And unheard of. It puts us on the same level as the Son of God, the everlasting Prince of Peace. Absurd.

My dad and I drove downtown today to pickup some curbed old windows and a desk, with which to repair a greenhouse and a rocking chair, respectfully. But, they were already gone. Alas.

So, headed home, we stopped at a red light. The car to our right was blasting a reggae version of a Beatles song. Do you need anybody? I just need someone to love. Could it be anybody? I just want someone to love.

We pulled into Claire's filling station. I walked over to the laundromat to look at their fancy pocketknives. When I returned, the bill was $18.01 to fill up the little red container, and we had $19.00 cash. Dad asked if I had a penny, and I said no, but I could walk around until I found one. I turned, prayed for a penny, and found a dime. Immediately in my mind was the Beatles chorus: I get by with a little help from my friends. Excellent.

I flicked dad the dime, and he went inside. The cashier (presumably Claire) said, aw, don't worry about the penny. Dad dropped her the dime and said, don't worry about the change.

Good morning.

Three Poems

What do you say to me this morning?

--

I am still fearful of what would be said
should all my secret sins be poured out.
If I told them, all of them, all of it,
I would be plastered with shame.
Yet none from you, Lord God Almighty.
No condemnation for which to quake, no fear.
For your love is greater than my sins,
all poison, black and vile, and real,
denatured, bleached and bathed in myrrh,
and really, truly dead, trod upon by an even more real thing,
your love

--

Why did you give the giraffe a blue tongue?
The neck I can fathom, deep as it may go,
but why did you give the giraffe a blue tongue?
You do not make poorly, create meagerly,
you did not run out of materials, or red paint.
Were you saving it for me? The red, that is, for my tongue and flesh and lips?
Why didn't you give me a blue tongue? Before I ate the blue ice-pop?

--

I know the language
and the game.
They will not assuage
the heartache
that longs for longing
and for love
in me my loving
to flow out
without anxiety
without doubt
of reality
that I know
and yet feel absent.
What say you?

Do not ramble in doubt
it darkens
your counsel to your soul
that needs all
the counseling you know
for truth flows
as a river through it
all. Trust me
when I remind you that
The river flows.
Starting shallow and small
at the table
through the haggard curtain
cut for space
to flow out of the door
to your knees
and before you know it
you can't turn;
the force of the water
unyielding
pressing onto your waist
and you step
because you have to
keep your head
above your four cavities
'til your toes
give leave of the ground
and kick off
to swim the river
to the sea.
It flows. Remember that.

To Sit

I want to share with you the truth,
but you would not be changed.
To lead you behind the curtain,
but the view would not free you
to cease your brokenness.
I want to gather you as a hen gathers her chicks,
but you would have none of it.

I want to tell you again of my desire,
but you would not be changed.
To show you that which I am teaching you,
but you would not be taught.

Oh, the changing comes. Yea, it comes. But not with force.
At least, not with mine.
Yes, the changing comes, and force it requires.
But not mine.

The force of bending, the force of admission,
the force of acceptance, and acknowledgement.

For I have shown you, dear one.
My truth stands not silently by, but sits.
My curtain has been pulled back, divided.
You have been healed, and gathered.
Even as you lay fallen from heights inexorable
you have been collected and healed, and made new. Get up.

No, love no longer stands, but sits with truth
and smiles kindly, deliberately, and says
I am revealed, my love,
with truth and I am deliberate,
to reveal in you that which has been done in me,
and then what is being done in you, in time.

---

Merry Christmas, everyone. Thank you, to my family who love and provide more than I knew I wanted or needed, to my friends who have encouraged me in Christ's work within me, to my God who is patient, so unrelentingly patient.

If you know anyone who would like to teach me woodturning, let me know. I'd like to make a cup.

Again

I've been encouraged to write again. I don't know what to write about, though I'll continue to write as the spirit descends.

But, I'd love to stretch a bit. So, an offering. What would you have me write? What forms/topics would you like me to dig-in to?

Value

There's a regular at Kudu who needs help. I can tell, because of a few things:

1-she gets googlie-eyed whenever a guy gives her attention (including me).
2-she told me that her grades are really bad this (her first) term.
3-I've seen what she wears late at night. Some outfits are meant for partying and getting guys' attention.
4-she's seems to be going on dates with a guy who is WAY too old for her. Big brother instincts kicking in.

She came through with the too-old guy, and it got me talking with a co-worker. Where do we get our value?

Ultimately, because we are made in the image of God, and bought with the life and death of jesus of Nazareth. But how do I open those ideas to a non-christian without scaring him off with God talk? What, in words he can understand, give me (us) value?

Here were my posits:
1-because we can love (God and man)
2-because we can celebrate (aka rejoice, aka glorify, aka worship)
3-because we can create

Which are all part of the nature of God, I think. He loves perfectly, celebrates/rejoices in His completion (John 17, glorify), creates in His image.

But then, wise co-worker answered the questions herself.

She said, "I have value because I'm loved. When I'm driving recklessly down the road, I don't stop because I desire to keep my own life. I stop because of all the love others have for me, because of the pain I would cause them if I was hurt. I have value because I am loved."

Then she talked about her pastor and his kid. "Really, I can't understand love. That so-and-so would love his son, just a crying lump of fat, absolutely worthless, with a love that is deep and strong and true, I can't grasp that. But it's all we really want. It's what people without God live for."

Value because I'm loved. Bingo. Blew my mind. I just wanted to yell it out. I did, taking out the recycling. And several times mopping. Because I'm loved.

Ultimately, pride, my desire to have power and control, is all about me being my own person, outside of the will and action of everyone else. It's me alone. It's me loveless. Valueless.

But if I am loved, and I choose to walk in that love...
If I am chosen, and invited...
If I am loved...

Then, I am.

Just like God.

Because He, first and foremost, is loved. That is where his loving comes from. An eternal circling of love: the Father's of the Son, the Son's of the Spirit, the Spirit's of the Father. And then reverse them all. Trinity life, some call it. Others call it love. Life. Beauty. Joy. Completion. Fulfillment.

Value.

Psalm 61, kind of

I'm praying, I'm singing, Oh God,
Hear me and answer
From the furthest pieces of my motivations, from imperfect grounds I call to you
when my heart is tired, and when I doubt
Lead me to the rock that is more firm that I
Because you have saved me.*
But really, you have. It's Historical.

Can I please experience your presence?**
Can I please be directed by your spirit, filled with your spirit again?***
Because I've been praying, and seeking, albeit with failing motives and misplaced desires,
And moreso because you've called me your son, adopted me into your family.

Jesus, you are king. Live forever.
Would all the generations see your reign of hope and love and peace and joy!
Keep your throne above, and in my heart;
You are steadfast love and faithfulness. Watch over me.

So I will sing more, and pray more, forever;
and every day, in the meantime.

----------

* from anxiety, and from a need to prove myself, and from the need for attention from other people.
**I know I don't always believe it's possible, that you do or want to, but your word says so. (see Acts 3:20)
*** Same doubts, but hoping/expecting. (see Acts 4:31)

Deus Ex Machina

In ancient Greek literature, 'Deus Ex Machina' is the name for the plot device in which a miraculous and unconnected solution arrives for an otherwise unanswerable problem. It's criticized for it's contrived nature. A solution, many believe, must come from within the plot. You cannot be saved by a bolt of lightning on a sunny day. An uneducated peasant cannot be momentarily endowed with the gift of speech to rouse the troops for battle. Solution from within- no easy outs.

Getting ready for the oyster roast on Friday, things started going wrong. Didn't have a top to the cooking pot. Couldn't get the propane tank off the cooker. Looked like we were going to have too many folks, too few oysters. Would people bring drinks? Would there be enough food? I was stressing out big time. And I knew, I knew that I should pray about it.

But 1) I felt selfish asking for help with an oyster roast when I hadn't really asked Him about it in the first place, and
2) I wanted to fix this myself. I dug the hole, so I'll dig out.

So, for a little while, I didn't pray. I smoldered (not a Tangled, hey-good-looking smolder, just an internal anxious melting).

But, some days I'm quicker to repentance. After a few minutes of that I waded through my reluctance and grumpily prayed, "Ok God, I know you can make this all better. I put tonight in your hands. I don't know if it was the perfect idea or not, and I know I could have planned better and had all this figured out already. But I didn't, and you know it, and I'm asking for grace. Please fix it."

And He did. Great night, enough of everything, great conversation, enormous marshmallows and tasty, tasty oysters. It was fine. He took my anxiety out, and blessed us with a lot of relaxing fun.

We all want to solve our own problems. And really, we can't. We need a God who drops solutions by crane, a God who opens the trapdoor at our feet and raises us out of the mud and mire that we ourselves have made. We need a God who does not require internal solutions to our prideful plotting. We need a Deus Ex Machina.

But then again, this is his story, after all. We shouldn't be surprised. From the very beginning, a savior has been promised. When we follow his narrative instead of ours, it's not a contrived plot twist at all. It's a plan. A miraculous rescue, that's been waiting there all along.

Experiential Discipleship

This article is beautifully written, from the title to the author's min-bio a the bottom. Worth every second of the read.

http://www.gospelcentereddiscipleship.com/experiential-discipleship/

I pray for the grace to live this.

Job 33:14

Imagine, for a moment, that we are sitting in an enormous, ancient symphony hall. Imagine we sit in lined chairs, in deep darkness and concentration, waiting to hear the first, clear, rising note of the flute. The symphony is muted with our longing, our expectation. The flute will surely come.

We shall hear, we are quite sure, the most magnificent of parts. We cannot say what it will resemble, or call to mind, for we cannot be sure if we have ever heard it at all. But the desperation we feel in waiting assures us of its wonder. We deeply long for it. We are anxious with waiting. Starving with waiting. Straining to hear anything. We have come, from far and wide, for the music. Oh, for such music to waken our ears! To quicken our souls, to move us to tears. Music to loose us, gasping for the breath we've held at arms length for fear we might disturb the very atmosphere which could at any moment carry a trickle of flute to our ears.

There! A flute? I thought, for a moment. It sounded much like a violin, but was so brief we cannot be sure. You are holding your breath again, as am I. Did we hear something, echoing through the chamber? We grasp and cling to every slight reverberation like sailors to the last of the water on a sinking, sinking, drowning ship.

Did we hear the flute? We can't be sure. Sometimes we think we hear it. It is beautiful, beautiful for a moment. But far away, as though it travels over rivers and marshes, rolling under the bridges and through the streets to reach us. We are confident, if it is the flute, it must be coming from the stage. Yet, when the sound drifts into our ears, and out again, it reminds us more of a wave than a transmission, the way it comes rolling over and back and around.

We are straining. We are doubting our ears. It must have begun by now. We grow more anxious still. When, when shall we hear the flute, rising, rising, over all we fear and dream, over that for which we long?

When, when shall we hear it and know that the music does play?



And the symphony continues, all but forgotten. Perhaps even forgotten, now, for the flute. Yes, the composer wrote for the clarinet as well. And the violin. But the flute, I must hear it and know. He wrote for the trumpet, and for the french horn, and for the tuba, of course he did. But I cannot hear the flute. Why does it not play louder? Why was his piece not written with more boldness, more clarity. Let it stand alone, pure, and clean. I can hardly tell if it does speak, so intermingled are the voices of the other instruments.

I cannot dance until I know I have heard the flute. What if I should step out of it's rhythm? Or bend too far from its tone? How will I know how to dance if I cannot hear it over the symphony??

I will wait.

------------

The necessity of the flute is quite real, but it cannot exist alone. Perhaps, to to hear the flute, we first must admit the reality of the symphony in which it plays. Perhaps we must begin to dance to the clarinet or the trumpet, trusting that the flute will not contradict them in rhythm or melody.

Miller Time

So his brothers said to him, "Leave here and go to Judea, that your disciples also may see the works you are doing. For no one works in secret if he seeks to be known openly. If you do these things, show yourself to the world." For not even his brothers believed in him.

Jesus said to them, "My time has not yet come, but your time is always here. The world cannot hate you, but it hates me because I testify about it that its works are evil. You go up to the feast. I am not going up to this feast, for my time has not yet fully come." John 7:3-8

I know that my motives to pray for healing often include a desire to be assured of the advancement of the Kingdom and of my good standing with the Healer. Compassion is in there as well, but sometimes in lesser proportions. I will continue to pray for healing, but I'm begging God to change my motives from self-assurance-seeking to true, compassionate love, pickled in a confidence in the loving, living God. I cannot change my motives myself, but I will submit them to the Father, who gives us the Spirit to will and to do. And I think He is changing them already.

In the end, their mis-motivations do not stop Jesus from going up to the feast and teaching on the coming of the Holy Spirit ('streams of living water'). Their sinful hearts did not change His plans, nor his heart, at all. He was simply working in His time and not theirs. Still He came, and still He brought the heat.

You can have my impatience, my plans, my fears. It's your time. Bring it, Lord.

Keep My Eyes

A new song, for starters: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PV_6X0wlZvU

--------------

I have seen that I often want to pray for healing because I know I should, and because I fear NOT doing it, fear the Lord's displeasure, fear losing my standing with Him. I know that is wrong. But I'm still fearful, both to pray for the sick and not too. A friend told me this morning to begin asking God for His heart towards the sick when I see them, and let that drive me. Sounds good. I pray for faith.

Here's the problem. I think, deep down, I should pray for nearly every sick person I come across. But I'm dreadfully afraid they won't be healed, because in my experience they haven't always been healed. I don't know how to do it well. Do I press in, praying again and again until they get out of the chair? Because God does not desire sickness, there won't be any in heaven, in His kingdom. Or do I pray once, offer it to God as a child, and then, like a child, say, well, you know best and I trust you? Both seem wonderful, in their own ways. I prefer the second, because it has less to do with me being on the line. But I'm not sure. I know people with powerful healing prayer ministries who have prayed for folks who have not gotten up. I have prayed for people and seen small things healed, and prayed for others and seen nothing at all. And it leaves me afraid.

I have seen that in leading worship, I often struggle to focus on Jesus because I'm analyzing the night, checking and watching for 'the spirit', looking for what's going on, what'll happen next, what to pray/who to pray for. In some ways that is worship, but in a very different way. I'm not reveling in the supreme nature of God, in His love or his grace or his glory. I'm not even always reveling in the complete work of the cross. Often I'm reveling in His present interaction with folks, in His immediate applicability to our days, emotions, fears, exhaustion, confusion. Which is great. But here's another problem. When I don't see God's present interaction or applicability, I struggle to worship. When I'm stressed or distracted, I look for Him to DO something.

In scripture, often the call is to remember God's work. On the Sabbath, particularly, look to what God has done. Manna doesn't fall on the Sabbath; it falls the day before. He has already provided, and it's a day set aside to know that. To remember.

And our memories of God's faithfulness often drive us into worship again. They free us from our introspection and our fears and let us worship loosely, to pray with expectation and to surrender. I don't know how to pray for the sick perfectly, and I don't know how to lead worship perfectly. I honestly don't know how to practice remembering well either. But I think that's something to start with. Starting with what He has done, first and primarily in Jesus. It is sure, it is true. Even When I don't feel a connection to it, when I don't feel overwhelmed by its glory or joy or freedom, it must be my source. Love casts out fear, and Love has come. I have to remember that. Keep my eyes on it.

The snake was lifted up in the wilderness, that the Israelites might look on it and be healed. So too was the Son of Man lifted up. God, give us the grace to keep our eyes on the love become sin, that heals us.

In the Write.

People tell me to write. Last summer, I was told that I had a book in me. This year I took short fiction and LOVED it. [I'd love to share a story or two if you'd like to see them.] Last night, a guy at yearteam read a post of mine and really liked it. Called me a writer. Today, chatting in the park, a friend told me to write. Journal or blog or something, he said. Write.

But all I have, really, are beginnings. I have thoughts that peter into dreams, hopes that trickle into sighs. I have short stories that become paragraphs, novels that become essays. Songs become poems, and poems become stanzas left to season on my external hard drive. I call its overarching file 'The Mind', because it's as wildly jumbled and unfinished as its namesake.

I want to write. I want to lead. I want to disciple young boys into adulthood. I want to teach them what it means to 'only do what we see the father doing', what it means to 'lose our life for the gospel, and so save it'. I want to know what it means. I want to teach them how to love your roommates, how to build community, how to find the lost and the broken. I want to teach them how to work hard, for Jesus, even when brewing a carafe of House Blend.

I want to walk into the courtyard, approach a table of young men, and say, come, follow me. And I want them to say, yep, I'll have what he's having. Then I want the humility and the wisdom to lead them to Christ. I want to know Christ, the power of his resurrection, the depth of his love, the depth of his suffering. I want to be as confident as Jesus was, to pray for healing- to command it.

But this is all I have. Beginnings, desires, seekings. Maybe, with the Holy Spirit, that's all you need to lead. Apparently, it's all you need to write.

I pray for opportunities to minister. I pray for more desire to pray. I pray for a deeper intimacy, a deeper faith. And I pray for the capacity to lead, to express thoughts in ways that draw others along.

And I begin, with naught but beginnings and seekings and desires, failures and longings and perhaps a little more. But my communities say I'm ready, so I'm pressing on and waiting, day to day, for young men to lead and things to write. I fully understand that in all my dreams, striving, pushing, I may be confused, in the wrong. Tell me, if you ever suspect it.

But in the meantime, I'm going to trust that Christ, by His Spirit, has put me in the write.

Lies, Damn Lies, and

Stat: 83% of you (folks who've looked at my blog) use a Macintosh Operating System.
Inference: I have trendy friends.

Stat: 56 of my site views are from China.
Inference: They have 1/3 of the worlds population. Of course someone from China would stumble across my blog at somepoint.
However, here's an interesting fact. China blocks google-based programs, of which blogspot most certainly is one. Therefore, either some smart fellas are beating the system, a bunch of smart Westerners are using proxies, or the Chinese government is watching me. I hope the latter- it makes me feel more dangerous.

Stat: "Give Me the Flute" is the top viewed post on my site.
Inference: I really have no idea.

Stat: 66% of you arrive at this site via FB.
Inference: Most of my friends are in college.

Stat: Well, just see for yourself. These are the keywords searched that brought websurfers to my site.



Sorry about the grainy-ness there. Amy Canosa, omnes geniosos melancolicos esse, DMX, hairy chested church planters, radius greenville imago dei, etc.

Yep. You saw that right. Me and Acts 29 have something in common.

2: The Experience of Doubt

Sweet words, tender action. Yet, surely confused, and wrong.
Deciding, as though it were mine to resolve, to conclude.
How I feel it is mine to resolve, to conclude!

Perhaps I run away naked; I hope, I hope I run away, naked. Oh for that honor.

No, they brought him to me, with all their slingshots and bamboo daggers, as I knew they would. I was ready, I waited for them. Asked when they would be coming. And they brought him. Of course. I followed Him too, in the old way, the way that predates Twitter by a Millennia.

But they brought him to me, and they were so proud, so coyly smiling. Oh, fear and trembling within me: I swallowed it down. I must decide this, and I know.

Well, they line up against the marble wall and take turns. It doesn't matter that no two are the same. It doesn't matter that all are weak, none are strong, no pair corroborates and no pair congeals. It is their sheer number that outweighs hope, outweighs life and joy. A weak flood can kill crops as surely as a strong one, should it persist long enough.

Oh, they tell me, we heard him say things, like, I will tear down what you call religion, or, I will steal what you lean upon for security and control. We heard him say he could replace it over night, or over two, whatever he said.

Now look, I told him, this is all as it's supposed to be, you set this up. I am supposed to sit here, high backed and richly carved as it is. I have to decide this, you know that. Say something, please. Say something. You have to say something. You always say something.

Look, I said, are you the Christ?

Does it even matter? And I waited.

Then, Yep, he whispered. And yes. But I've already told you as much. And yes, I do run this show, and no, you cannot decide this. You never could, and I will make sure you know this. Or I will die trying.

Well, what do you think of that?

Look! Brandished wooden guns, and whittled pocket knives waggle before my eyes. Look! He said you can't decide this. He won't answer, he won't refute us. He knows. He knows. Damn him to hell, back where he came from, take his control, it's yours to have, is it not? It's you're high chair, is it not? Damn Him to hell, damn yourself, damn us all if that's what it takes to keep the high chair. That's what I think. That's what you think, isn't it?

This is my chair. You gave me this chair, didn't you? Didn't you? Well you surely aren't standing up for yourself. So helpful.


Come on. Prove yourself. Prophesy, damn it. Who hit you?









--

sit in that a minute before you read the next bit.

--










I have, by grace, been moved out of much of my doubt and anxiety in the past month. Nearly all of it, in fact. Therefore, do not fear: this is not a relapse. But as I read the passion narrative in Mark this morning, I could not shake the similarities between my experience with doubt and the court of the High Priest immediately preceding Jesus's crucifixion. It is a highly condemning post, revealing of my own pride and depravity and desire for control. But I felt as though sharing it, in a first-person narrative format, might be of some edification to others wrestling with doubt. It is an evil, evil proceeding. It is the nature of our hearts. If you have questions about this post, or any others for that matter, light or heavy, always know that you are invited to ask. As I have been given I will try to give, as freely as I know how.

So, that's what this post is about. That's why it seems to come out of nowhere, why it seems out of character from my past few weeks. Because, frankly, it is.

And thank you to all who have been praying for me in this season. God has answered much prayer, and I am grateful. Very, very grateful.

The Return 1: Oh! Gravity

I found myself in my living room across from two Bens, one asleep and one facebooking. The rain has forced me back inside after a failed surf trip. The waves broke too wild, too choppy for our humble experience. Gusts of wind tumbled sea foam across the rain-smoothed sand towards the pier, leaving shimmering layers of saline bubbles. They reminded me of the stainless steel marbles that stole my attention in elementary school. They were a cheap thrill, and the glass ones were better.

I found myself in a missions conference with a woman who has more discernment than I have ever seen. She told the participants to pay attention- 'you are on duty', she said, 'to bring the word of God to us this evening. We have two more words to be spoken before we close, so please be bold and come forward.' Just like that. She could tell when that which was being spoken was the Spirit and when it was the flesh, and stopped several people from sharing more. She spoke of perceiving the presence of the Spirit on people, in the way the Spirit rests on the prophet in Isaiah 61. I want that discernment. She spoke of a complete trust in God that I can only imagine, leaving home with no plan and no destination, Abrahamic indeed. I am not brave enough, but I want to be, and quickly. We ain't getting younger, kiddos, and she's moving mountains while I'm serving coffee. Not a fair comparison, I know, but sometimes it feels like that.

I found myself frustrated and begging for joy on the way to work in a hip coffee shop off Vanderhorst street (brewing San Pedro Nectar Light Roast, which is the bomb). Then I found myself worshipping while I clean bowls, and using cupcakes to bribe the customers in the patio to sing happy birthday to a regular inside.

I found myself on a sailboat with a roommate and another shop regular, trying to untangle the halyard and fix the sail before getting stuck in the marsh. The regular tells me it's the most fun he's had since the grand canyon. I'll take that.

I found myself in worship wanting to be the favorite child, wanting to be noticed, affirmed, but challenged to serve and play as a free, loved child. Thank you, Jesus Storybook Bible.

I found myself driving into the woods to lead worship for a retreat, praying for eyes to see the kingdom advancing, but unable to distinguish between all that is wrong and where God desires me to bring light. Where do we begin?

I found myself dancing at a Jeremy Riddle concert.

I found myself strongly led to tell an acquaintance that God says she belonged, only to find that she needed to hear it badly.

I found myself preoccupied with the thought of a banana throughout worship, to the point of wondering if it was some prophetic word to share. I didn't share it, thought part of me thinks I should have. I don't know if that was right or not.

I found myself talking for an hour with a Catholic nun, feeling a deep, deep love for her, as her cancer grows. As Nouwen would say, the Christ in me recognizing the Christ in her. It was beautiful.

And I rarely ever find myself in anxiety and doubt and restlessness and fear. Which is a miracle, seeing where I have come from in the past year.

All this has fallen like an apple on my head. Oh, I have discovered gravity, but it's been there all along. And as much as I have found, this I have been given. As much as I have seen, I have been shown. I am growing; small, but green and growing. And as I find myself, I am finding God more and more.

And now my task:

to find myself more and more in Him
and to find others for Him.


Genesis 28:16

Introspection 2

Another quote from Watchman Nee.

“If we persistently turn within ourselves we shall lose our peace completely, for we shall soon discover the discrepancy which exists between our expectation and our actual condition. We expect to be filed with holiness but we are found wanting in holiness. This makes us uncomfortable. God never asks us to be so introspective. To do so constitutes one of the main reasons for spiritual stagnation. Our rest lies in looking to the Lord, not to ourselves. In the degree that we look off unto Him to that degree are we delivered from self. We rest on the finished work of the Lord Jesus Christ, not on our own shifting experience. True spiritual life depends not on probing our feelings and thoughts form dawn to dusk but on “looking off” to the Savior!” 18


Prayers to do that, to be distracted from myself by His love and peace. I've had some of it this week, sitting out on the dock

Out of Introspection

I remember sophomore year, spending time with a dear friend of mine. He bowed at the waist whenever he left a room, as a joke, and it was charming and funny and all those things. But I remember, near the end of the year, a night spent with friends in the dorm. And as I rose to leave, I turned to my friends on the futon and bowed at the waist. Immediately I realized what I had done. I had taken on the qualities of my friend, simply by being with him.

Last night I was getting some light bedtime reading in. Namely “The Spiritual Man” by Watchman Nee. It is neither light nor bedtime, but I was intrigued. It has two prefaces, which might indicate that the author had something to say. He did. The prefaces were as far as I got.

In both, Nee was very clear that this book was not meant for self analysis. He urges his readers not to fall into introspection, for our eyes are not meant to look at ourselves but out and up to God.

Here I become introspective. Because this is my life. I am always checking myself, questioning, waiting.

This summer I’ve been surrounded by beautiful, God loving friends to whom dating is a very, very serious endeavor, probably with an expectation of marriage unless God does something big to stop it. Here I return home, giving advice to a friend of mine along those same lines, and a different friend give much clearer, more freeing advice. He has confidence, and joy, and I’m stuck with introspection, wondering if I am over-thinking it. At which point I, once again, am over-thinking it. Don’t be introspective.

What is good and pure and righteous and holy, keep your mind on these things. How I wish I did. But I stare at myself, all day long. I wonder, should I have done that, should my heart feel differently, could that be done better, what if I’m longing for the wrong job, what if I get the wrong job, what if I’m trying too hard, what if I’m not trying hard enough- oh, it goes on.

The slump that I have sat in for the past year, off and on, began with one conversation, in the plains of Namibia, in which a fellow traveler questioned my love. They argued that I could not be so zealous for the glory of God and still not do what is physically most beneficial for people. And I cried all night, because I felt it could be true.

This began in introspection, in condemnation. And I have sat in that place since then. I have taken things hard, and I have demanded perfection and failed, I have longed for a perfect ministry and a perfect plan and have found none. I don’t sign up because I know it’s not perfect, yet I become trapped in myself for nothing is perfect. Do something, right?

I need a beautiful distraction. I need a God who would take my mind off myself. But how, when I am so intent on getting everything right?

My prayer, Jesus, is that you would free me from myself. My introspection is indeed killing me. There is no freedom in it, at all. My education in critical thinking has made me into a critic of all, but mostly of myself. Because I fail constantly. Constantly. I cannot be perfect, and yet I am called to be.

Jesus, atone for me. Jesus, take my place. Spirit, guide me into hope, into your will. Father, the grace to see your son, and to trust You in all things. For you care for me. How do I know? You speak through NPR, Turkeys, Flannery O’Connor, and Watchman Nee. And the beach last night. How on earth I am found worthy to see that, I can find no explanation outside of Jesus. It’s too good, and I am too inept.

If I abide in myself, I will only become more of me. And that would suck.

If I abide in Jesus, I will only become more of Him. And that would be beautiful.

I have learned that I am completely capable of spending time with others while only abiding in myself. I center upon myself and ignore their interest, grow frustrated (and frustrating), and depressed.

Pray for me to learn how to abide in Jesus. He is my only hope, once again.

----------------

Post-Script: There was strange, beautiful comfort in the name of Jesus after writing this. Driving home, i would begin to pray and then to smile, for no reason. He is faithful. Knowing Him is peace in unknowning.

This morning, reading Joshua, I noticed that the tribes of Israel did not always have their land fully conquered when it was allotted to them. Instead, there remained enemies within their borders, some until Israel grew strong enough to remove them, others to remain permanently as servants, others simply to remain. It is possible to be given your inheritance and still do battle. It's possible to not be strong enough, and still be. The very end of Joshua is very, very encouraging. He asks them to choose, whether to follow the gods of their fathers or the One true God. They choose the one, thankfully. But Joshua isn't satisfied. He says, basically, you can't. You're not good enough. He is holy, and you will whore after other gods. And the people say, no, but we will still choose Him. Amen, sometimes we must choose. And we will never be good enough. Yet His faithfulness overcomes our faithlessness.

The Turkey: The End of Timotheos 2

There’s a story by Flannery O’Connor called the Turkey. It leads you through the erratic emotions of a young boy as he chases down the title bird, gives thanks to God, proudly struts through town, gives his only dime to the beggar woman in gratitude, and then is stopped by some local bullies who steal the turkey off his shoulder. The boy runs home ‘as though fear itself was chasing him, claws outstretched’, or something like that. I remember the claws.

And I remember the emotions. That boy is so very like myself. Chasing and proud, running hard after a turkey and finally catching it. He proudly trots it through town, giving thanks to God, but really only because he has been made to look good in front of his neighbors. And when it is stolen from him, his heart recoils into fear and despair, suspicious of the very God he so recently worshipped.

Yesterday afternoon I went for a run before my sisters and their good friend arrived to help me move out. Shout out to them- I love them very much, even the friend. Since I left for college I have realized how much I have been given in those two girls, and it’s absurdly undeserved. And in their friends too. They could have really crummy friends, but they don’t. Even their friends love me well and encourage me. Rarely have I been humbled so frequently by someone so young as when I spend time with my siblings and their friends.

Enough mush. I went on a run. And about two miles in I noticed something running along the fence line on my right. A large bird. A turkey.

Frightened, it ran, maintaining a good twelve foot gap between us. I chased it for about a quarter of a mile before it doubled back and I had it more or less pinned against the fenceline. I didn’t try to catch it, but I could have. It was exhausted, and wasn’t flying away- it must have had something wrong with it. I let it go and ran home.

It instantly reminded me of the story, but it wasn’t until this morning that I realized what the story was about. The first time I read it, I knew it resonated with me deeply, but I wasn’t sure why- but this morning, after chatting with my sisters’ friend, and wrestling with my own pride and desire to prove myself, did I realize how much it had to do with me.

In much of my ministry I gave God thanks, but much of that for which I was grateful revolved around how it made me look, the confidence it gave me, and the security that I found within it. And when life grew hard, when ministry grew difficult, I felt betrayed.

Yet God has only let me play with his swingset, hold his glory. I had an image in my mind this morning, of me blindfolded, in a red room, with my hands both out and a smile on my face. Blue shirt.  THAT’s how I want to be before God. Joyful and grateful, and rejoicing. Like a child at the petting zoo, so excited just to hold whatever I am about to be given (probably a snake). And ready, when it is asked of me, to give it back.

I can find joy in my work, and in my ministry, and I should. But there I cannot find my life. And if I find my life, my approval therein, God would be right and loving to take it from me, that I might return to Him as my fountain of living water.

NPR’s got a rival. God’s in the turkeys, too. Maybe Franklin knew what he was talking about after all.

Jesus Spits: The End of Timotheos

In my relationship with God I so often long for a big sign, an audible voice or an undeniable realization. But for some reason that’s not typically how God moves in relationship. He’s harder to catch. He moves subtly, speaking in creation, the scriptures, in the words of His body the church. And sometimes, yes, in a voice. But I so highly value testing and certainty that I am often unwilling to trust His invisible hand, His written voice, or His people. I think in terms of a ‘direct voice’ and an ‘indirect voice’. And I put so much priority on what I categorize as direct (audible, or emotions, or direction, or some kind of joy that is near emotion after all) that I stop thinking of any other ways of communicating as truly from God.

I am trapped by my desire, incessant need, to be in the right. It’s true. I am a spiritual perfectionist, and it’s hard for me because so much scripture calls us to perfection. I know that in my sin Jesus forgives me, yet I still feel an incredible weight to do the right thing, particularly in dating and in ministry. These two things put so much weight on me, it’s hard to love God because I begin to view him as a taskmaster, watching for the mistake.

But my friends won’t leave me there. They rebuked the crap out of me on Tuesday. Which is harsh, I know. They told me very firmly that if I could not receive God’s affirmation through community and through scripture, I was going to be out of luck. Very reminiscent of Jesus and the Pharisees, when they ask him for a sign and He says “even if a man was raised from the dead you wouldn’t believe.” I am so like those Pharisees, and, as another friend pointed out, so like Israel in the desert.

And so this week and this year I intend to receive God’s word through scripture and through community as, well, God’s word. To take it as truth, to take it seriously. To pay attention and write it down. To meditate on it. To believe, as Elihu did, that God speaks one way, and then another. But He speaks.

Yesterday I woke up anxious again. I spent some time in scripture, but put most of my morning into writing and praying through all that God has done in me and through me, and affirmed in me, in the past week. I wrote about how much my heart truly desires evil still, and how much I still kick against a God who loves and controls and deserves all the honor and glory and power. I want my own. and yet there is none to have. All good comes from the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth. Trees, grass, water, rain, food, fireflies, rivers, mountains, humans, brains, creativity, joy, peace, hope. Love. It’s all from God. To run to myself is to be a fool. There is not good there. Just pride. And yet I find myself waking up with a longing to be God, to have it all, to be in control and independently valuable. But I am not, and no one is. My heart is still so broken.

I got in the car to drive to a breakfast meeting that I knew would be tough. I was going to have to call this guy on some junk in his life, some passivity that is visibly keeping him from the hope and freedom that is in the kingdom of God. Me, saying that. Oh, the hypocrisy of ministry. Broken people, all around, in the pulpit, in the pew, in the car listening to NPR.

And so I was. And then began a segment discussing the demolition of the Berlin Wall. This week marks the anniversary of its construction, and so German officials are calling for a time of remembrance of the many divisions that caused the Wall to be built. The interviewee told how most foreigners assume that the falling of the Wall was the end of their division; in truth it was only upon its collapse that the two sides discovered how great were their differences, and how difficult reconciliation would be. The west had known democracy, freedom of expression, and a booming market-based economy. The east had known dictatorship, repression, and imploding businesses. The interviewee quoted a friend who had once spoken to him of the difficulties of the east entering the west. She said, “It’s hard to learn to be free when you’ve been a slave all your life.”

Boom. That was it. I freaked out. It’s hard to learn to be free when you’ve been a slave all your life. God is in my radio. God is on NPR*.

After a few minutes of praise and joy, a new segment began, discussing the Dow and it’s unprecedented instability. The woman revealed that never since its inception had there ever been a period of as much wildly varying shifts as had occurred this past week. She said that all the up and down and up and down was driven by emotions wrecked by what they had just experienced. She called it recency bias: our emotions are most influenced by that which has just occurred. In the stock market, we all fear a repeat of the 2008 dip, even if there are no looming market failures like the housing crash that brought much of the country down.

Boom. Recency bias. My emotions are most influenced by that which has just happened, namely, a hard year. That does not mean that I throw out emotions entirely, but it means that I check them against truth, because they are fickle and easily swayed. God is in my radio, I’m telling you.

Having said this, he spit on the ground, made some mud with the saliva, and put it on the man’s eyes.

You can’t see? Let’s add some dirt, that usually works.

But, it does. The man washes and sees.

Sometimes you have to stop looking for what you want, and take what you can get. Spit or words, He’ll heal regardless. And even though it feels like mud (heck, it might be mud), you’re learning to be free even as you wash it off. No, your emotions cannot determine your position- you are too easily swayed. And neither can your work determine God’s love for you, nor your value. He gives all and he takes all. And it’s all His. Always was, always will be. I want to be something on my own, even if it’s a slave. But I have been freed, and I am learning what freedom means. Perhaps it means not thinking so much. Perhaps it means not stressing over being perfect. Never acting or thinking out of fear, but only out of love and curiosity. That might take more mud.

But Jesus, I’ll take it. A God who spits is a God who loves, and Lord knows, really knows, that I could stand to be taken down another notch or two.

--

*one more reason the government should never even consider cutting its funding.

But Really: Timotheos 3 and half

"You say, 'I am pure, without transgression;
I am clean, and there is no iniquity in me.
Behold, he finds occasions against me,
he counts me as his enemy,
he puts my feet in the stocks
and watches all my paths.'
Behold, in this you are not right. I will answer you,
for God is greater than man.
Why do you contend against him,
saying, 'He will answer none of man's words'?
For God speaks in one way,
and in two, though man does not perceive it."
-Job 33:9-14

"Because of the multitude of oppressions people cry out;
they call for help because of the arm of the mighty
But none says, 'Where is God my Maker,
who gives songs in the night,
who teaches us more than the beasts of the earth
and makes us wiser than the birds of the heavens?'
There they cry out, but he does not answer,
because of the pride of evil men.
Surely God does not hear an empty cry,
nor does the Almighty regard it.
How much less when you say that you do not see him
that the case is before him, and you are waiting for him!"
35:9-14

Well shoot. Elihu breaks him down.

"Has anyone said to God,
'I have borne punishment; I will not offend any more;
teach me what I do not see;
if I have done iniquity, I will do it no more'?"
Job 34:31-32

This will be my new prayer, then.

BUT: Timotheos 3

Behold, I go forward, but he is not there,
and backward, but I do not see him.
On the left hand when he is working, I do not behold him;
he turns to the right hand, but I do not see him.
BUT he knows the way that I take;
when he has tried me, I shall come out as gold.

ol' Job 23:8-10

This is my hope, and prayer. And a little joy this morning. Waking up early is so stinkin' good.

Maybe a longer update later...

check out my new songs on noisetrade (artist: Drew Miller)

A Little Bird Told Me- Timotheos 2

Why do you contend against him,

saying, “He will answer none of man’s words’?

For God speaks in one way,

and in two, though man does not perceive it.

-Job 33:13-14 (and if you read this, please read through verse 28, at least)

Oh Job, Job.

Two Saturdays ago I biked into town to spend some time Sabbath-ing by the Reedy River. As I turned off the Swamp Rabbit and onto the road, I noticed a young bird, all fluffed and spread out, hopping into traffic. I spent a good ten minutes attempting to convince yon sparrow of the comparative benefits of the sidewalk. It didn’t seem to recognize my superior understanding of the dangers of fossil-fueled automobiles; I chased it around several times before it finally hopped away from the road instead of towards it. Eventually I left for the park, hoping the bird would find its own way

--

Last Monday we Timotheans went out to Sabbath for a couple hours. We paired off to practice what it means to walk in the Spirit. Josh and I wandered all over, not seeing much to do. It was nice to chill downtown, to talk through life, to try to pay attention to God. Sometime along the way we sat at a bench on Main, and a little wren soared in and began hopping around our feet. Josh promptly named her Susan, and she seemed to be breakfasting in the cracks of the sidewalk. We put our hands out in something like a giant’s invitation to play, but she wasn’t interested. Instead, she wanted my feet. She approached my sandals, craned her neck, and pecked my big toe. And I mean she went at it, peck peck peck peck. It sure surprised me. I thought she might break the skin, but she wasn’t quite strong enough. She was just pecking. I’m not sure what she thought it was, but she was quite persistent. I couldn’t help but feel that something was trying to get my attention.

Eventually she flew away, and we watched her go, only to see her stop at the next clump of Timotheans talking on the street. We had taken a liking to her at this point, so we followed her over. It was while we were still attempting to win her trust that an Australian couple, fresh off the AT, wandered up to ask about restaurants. We ended up going out to lunch with them at Grille 33 (under the Channel [so good]). We talked of God, wombats, Tazmanian politics and gun control. It was really fun, and encouraging. [Sidenote: their recession isn’t as bad as ours. The mining sector has seen tremendous job growth, and even cities are now see shortages of workers. If you ever wanted to go (which I have), now’s the time. I actually kind of want to go. They offered me room and board in Tazmania at an off-the-grid self-sustaining wooden farmhouse in Tazmania. in the wilderness. On a cliff. Over the ocean. I’m serious. And I might just go.]

--

I woke up far too early yesterday morning to meet a friend to pray on the top of a parking garage. His idea, and he gave me a free muffin from Liquid Highway afterwards, so I’m not complaining. And beating the traffic out always encourages me. A cool, softly-lit road with quiet shops; even the stop-lights offer rest. My mind also turns a little slower, a little clearer in the mornings.

We took the elevator up and spent an hour in near silence, watching the already rising sun begin to warm the roofs of Greenville. I was thinking about the way Jesus speaks of a relationship with God, one that other religions never really get around to. I really do want intimacy with the Creator- something seems very clean about that, seems cool and softly-lit and right, particularly in the early morning, before man has spoken his part. Jesus says that eternal life is to know the Father, and I think I believe Him. There would be eternal life in but a minute of knowing and being known by such eternal glory. It’s the only faith of which I know in which the scorned Creator comes to the scoffers. It’s certainly the only in which God dies for the sake of relationship with them. In Jeremiah 13:11, the LORD says that he made the whole house of Israel to be for him a name. A name. The LORD names his people, which in-and-of itself is quite intimate, but then he takes us on as a name. That is condescension to the highest degree (well, maybe lowest, what with ‘condescending’ and all). That is marriage, and that is intimacy, folks. I have spent hours begging for an intimacy with God that I could perceive. It usually isn’t apparent to me, and that’s part of why the past year has been so frustrating and hard. It’s why often I doubt my faith, the love of God, the Spirit’s presence in me. Shouldn’t I see something more? Shouldn’t I feel something, hear something, be confident in something? The sheep know the shepherds voice- but what if I seem deaf? I quickly spiral downwards in questions like these, ‘catastrophic thoughts’ lending themselves quickly to despair. This territory seems so new, this emptiness, loneliness, forsakenness so real. Pensive, doubting, fearful heart, why can’t you hear what Christ the Savior says?

We sat on the stairs, near the northern-most elevator in the Spring Street Garage, and looked out over the steeples and shingles. A hawk sat still on the arm of a cross several blocks away. And across the garage I noticed a bird. It was a juvenile cardinal, trapped in the stairwell. The top two levels of stairs, for some reason, are glassed in, with only a door in and out. He must have flown in the bottom and climbed up, until he was in a glass room, with a ceiling, and no way out but down. Unfortunately, most birds fly up when panicked, and thus, this one was stuck. He was smart enough to know that windows were not escape routes- he would fly up to them, veer away at the last second, and return to his handrail. We walked across and waved him to and fro until we forced him down a level, then another, until the glass walls stopped. He flew into the garage, and I walked behind him, out through the dark to the open air on the other side.

We returned to our perch on the roof and sat again, listening and watching. Ten minutes later a new bird was trapped, this time a female purple bunting. She was not as smart as the cardinal, and was actually colliding with the windows. We re-assumed our positions as bird-whisperers, but she was less convinced of our benevolence as well. She fought hard against our coaxing- we had to chase her to the ground level of the stairwell before she flew into the garage itself, and then out into freedom. She’s the one pictured above.

I can’t help but notice the birds. I can’t help but listen to them. They are just too well placed, and I am just too like them. I have found myself in a new place, by no apparent fault of my own, trapped by what I feel and think and by what I don’t know. Sometimes I know what I cannot escape through, and sometimes I find out only when I collide with it. Now pay attention here. What the birds in the stairwell most feared, when they felt most threatened and most alienated, here was actually the birds’ only hope for freedom. The big intimidating giants fresh off the beanstalk, waving their hands and snapping pictures- here was love.

I am, in many ways, still trapped on the sixth story of a parking garage in downtown Greenville. And I am still often fearful, and often untrusting. But maybe, just a little, I’m beginning to see the giant for what He truly is doing. Saving my life.

Twas love that caused my heart to fear, and love my fears relieved. This is my hope.

A little bird told me.

The Beginning- Timotheos:1

Look down from heaven and see
from your holy and beautiful habitation
Where are your zeal and your might?
The stirring of your inner parts and your compassion
are held back from me.

For you are our Father,
though Abraham does not know us,
and Israel does not acknowledge us;
you, O Lord, are our Father,
our Redeemer from of old is your name.

O Lord, why do you make us wander from your ways
and harden our hearts, so that we fear you not?
Return for the sake of your servants,
the tribes of your heritage.

Your holy people held possession for a little while;
our adversaries have trampled down your sanctuary.

We have become like those over whom you have never ruled,
like those who are not called by your name.

Oh that you would rend the heavens and come down,
that the mountains might quake at your presence-
as when fire kindles brushwood and the fire causes water to boil-
to make your name known to your adversaries,
and that the nations might tremble at your presence!

When you did awesome things that we did not look for,
you came down , the mountains quaked at your presence.
From of old no one has heard or perceived by the ear,
no eye has seen a God besides you,
who acts for those who wait for him.
You meet him who joyfully works righteousness,
those who remember you in your ways.
Behold, you were angry, and we sinned;
in our sins we have been a long time, and shall we be saved?

We have all become like one who is unclean,
and all our righteous deeds are like a polluted garment.
We all fade like a leaf,
and our iniquities, like the wind, take us away.
There is no one who calls upon your name,
who rouses himself to take hold of you;
for you have hidden your face from us,
and have made us melt in the hand of our iniquities.

But now, O Lord, you are our Father;
we are the clay, and your are our potter;
we are the word of your hand.
Be not so terribly angry, O Lord,
and remember not iniquity forever.
Behold, please look, we are all your people.
Your holy cities have become a wilderness;
Zion has become a wilderness,
Jerusalem a desolation.
Our holy and beautiful house,
where our fathers praised you,
has been burned by fire,
and all our pleasant places have become ruins.
Will you restrain yourself at these things, O Lord?
Will you keep silent, and afflict us so terribly?

Follow-Through: VH 8 (or 'the explosion of the hyperlinks')

I once prayed for compassion, to have my heart break for that which breaks God's.

And recently I've struggled with doubt, heavier than every before.

I woke at three-thirty in the morning, in despair, near panic attack. I was scared to death of losing all the things that my faith has given me. My family, my friendships, my future calling, my confidence, my ability to serve, my right-ness, in everything i've ever done or said. I was scared of losing these things, because I had no strength to hold onto my faith. I had no vision of hope, no concept of peace, no joy. I could not see Jesus, nor his applicability to anything in the world. I saw so much brokenness, so much lying, so much hidden sin and addiction. I saw people who named Christ and yet did not walk in His power. I saw people who named Christ and had not His joy. His peace. Me, for starters. I felt scared, unsure, un-confident, unsure. Shouldn't faith make me more sure, more joyful, more confident?

Much of this doubt comes from the 'standard' problem of a loving God who does not bring all people to Himself, in the end. There are a few verses that make it seem like maybe there's reason to believe that 'Love Wins' (Colossians 1:20, 1 Corinthians 15:22, 1 John 2:2, Romans 5:15, and others).

But when we look at these verses in context to the rest of scripture, to the testimony of the saints, to the understanding of the orthodox church, judgment seems very real. Harsh, wrathful. And I hate what that means. I hate hell, I hate that God would not bring all people to Him. It makes me frustrated.

I have spoken with many, many people, not least of which included my father, or Tim Udouj, or Amy Canosa, my many, many great friends, my community here at the Vista House, and in RUF. Wisdom from my roommate has astounded me. The encouragement and challenges from my constant Monday-breakfast companion has pushed me forward. Chats on the frisbee field, on the roof, in the car, over drum-making and worship practice, all these have encouraged me. Sometimes I wanted none of it. None of it. But it has been God's voice, I believe/hope/cling. Thank you, all of you. I will miss the ones I'm leaving, dearly. Since that night of fear, I have grown back towards hope, slowly, though I relapse from time to time. Recovery is hard.

Easter morning I had to face the hardest question I've ever faced. In the pitch black of the sunrise service, I sat with two great friends, who have encouraged me and blessed me imeasurable. And I fought a battle in my head. The question that I struggled to answer was this:
Am I willing to serve a God that sends people to hell?

And I could not answer that, for a long time. I genuinely wasn't sure.
What finally moved me to decision was not a view of God's love, or of His glory and his worthiness. It was the realization that to reject God because I hated what He was going to do did nothing but leave me alone, self-righteous, arrogant, and prideful. It did not let me love anyone. It did not provide hope of joy for anyone. It simply left me smug, and condemned.
And so I chose to follow God, still. I am broken by hell. I do not understand. But that does not give me the freedom to ignore it. It does not free me to love. Love frees me to love, and that's it. Not moral backbone, not human rights, not all wisdom, not tongues, or miracles. Love does.

I am having a miserably hard time recognizing the love of God these days.


--


I told my parents not to come up until Saturday, assuming my friends would be doing something (as there has hardly been time to breathe in the past month). And, in fact, they are/were. They were hanging with their parents.

So, suddenly I felt lonely. I had the choice to tag along, or to spend some time alone. Michael kept telling me to stop thinking. He hit me in the face with a pillow when he realized I was still thinking. I didn't want to crash anyone's dinner, though I knew I could have: my friends are gracious. I didn't want to be alone, for fear of my doubts, my struggles.

But I wanted to rest. I wanted to be with God, to rest with Him, if it was possible. I knew I should be in the scriptures, but didn't want to. I'm genuinely afraid to open then, afraid I'll be disappointed, or hurt.

But the director here at the house wanted us to blast music at the 5k runners, so Michael and I set up the speakers, and he set up a sick classic rock 'dude looks like a lady' playlist, and went to dinner. I tried to get to Sunrift to buy rope, but was blocked off by the popo, so I came back. I set up a hammock to read and take pictures of the runners, drank a mothership and waited.

They came around the bend, running north, and I realized I was awkwardly close to the road. Then I remembered how much I was encouraged by the folks who cheered for me in my race. So I started cheering. And kept cheering. Turns out, I cheered for roughly 4000 runners. It was one of the most encouraging things I've ever done. People were encouraged. It was great.

Next I re-read THIS ARTICLE, called "Bearing the Silence of God", by Zira Meral.

Unbelievable article. READ IT. I emailed the guy. He likes Banksy.

In the middle, it says this:
"The incapacity of the modern church to reconcile the suffering of the global church with the God of love is evident. But, our highest good is not a problem-free life; it is to be like the Son."

I read that twice. To be like the Son. What was he like?

Luke 13:33-34 came to mind.
"Nevertheless, I must go on my way today and tomorrow and the day following, for it cannot be that a prophet should perish away from Jerusalem.’ O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often would I have gathered your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you would not!"

I almost cried.

Because God's heart breaks for this. I think God hates hell, somehow. And I DO NOT understand why He doesn't lock it up and leave it empty.

But to know that God may be answering my prayers, that all of this fear and depression and darkness and doubt and frustration and anger, that it all may be God growing me in compassion-that my heart may be breaking for what breaks his- that is Good.

I hope that this is true. Follow-through is a hopeful thing, even when it feels like death, and doubt, and despair. Because, I think, follow-through means love. I think. I hope. I cling.

I'm in Greenville for the summer. Look me up.

Mystic Sweet Communion: VH 7

This will be a collection of thoughts, ideas, snippets. A smorgasbord, if you will.

Love always trusts, always hopes.
-----

We gather as drawn
Moons to their Jupiter
Earths to their Star
And circle we must
All angles in wonder
As light transpires our atmospheres
until all are warmed, all are fed.

We gather as drawn
Life to the Spring
Streams to the Sea
With all rush of days
And motion coming to stillness
Into the motion of ebb and flow
until all are steady, all are fed.

We gather as drawn
Wheat to its Sower
Sowers to their Home,
As fullness comes
From that once internalized
Taken again, and again
Until all are settled, all are fed.

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Wednesday night we had a community meal at the VH. We ate, read 1 Corinthians 13 together. Love always trusts, always hopes.

Then we shared an informal communion together. There is no way we could agree on the process- symbol? transubstantiation? intersubstantiation? remembrance? I do not myself know. Yet it was the most aware that I have been of sacrament (an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace) in long time. We sat, in a circle with a candle, around Jesus. We read of Jesus, spoke of His life and death, His sacrifice for us. We prayed to Him together. We took the bread and the wine (that is, Jesus Christ) and gave it, one after the other, around the circle. We offered Jesus to each other and each received Him from the other. That, my dear friends, is Christian community. That is Grace, lived with others. That is Sacrament, at least in part.

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Love always trusts, always hopes.

Father, my love must be very small indeed, for I trust You very little, and hope for little.
I have no idea what I'm doing with my life. I have no idea what You're doing with my life.
When I pursue You, usually it's so I can be sure that I know you. That I can be sure my life will be stable, secure, financially feasible. When I minister, so often it is to garner the praise of those around me, not to prove my worth to others as much as to demonstrate, to my own doubting soul, that I am in relationship to You, that I know and love and listen to You. But I do desire influence. I didn't know that until yesterday. I was standing in the restroom in the Pden, at the sinks, and a person from the janitorial staff came in. They kind of avoided eye contact, but in a deferential way. My heart skipped immediately from steadiness to panic as I considered my future. I do not want to do janitorial duties. I want to influence people. I do want people to look up, to see me enter a room and be drawn to me, to ask me questions. I want to command eyes and ears, attention. I want my life to mean something.

Which implies several very sick, very wrong things.
1. Social Power = Meaning. A lie, from the pit of Hell, really.
2. Service Work = Not Meaning. Lie.
3. I > Janitorial Staff. Lie. I react viscerally in such a way as to demonstrate that I believe this lie.

Other lies I believe include: I>The Uneducated, I>The Poor, I>The Socially Awkward, I>The Unorthodox.

Truth:
Jesus=Meaning.
Jesus=Service Work.
Jesus>Me, and yet washed my feet.
Uneducated=Educated=Poor=Rich=Socially Awkward=Socially Apt=Unorthodox=Orthodox

and Jesus=Love, for them all.

I know the Truth, I think. But Truth is of very little importance without Love.

Lord, I am sickened by my pride, and I repent, as much as I can. Change my heart, Lord. Teach me Your Love. To Love. To Trust. To Hope. To Love.

Sweet Compassion: VH 6

mind you, this is raw, and a bit intense. I've been praying for compassion.

These are the things with which I am struggling, currently.

ME

I do not really like myself. Up until this year, I think I’ve found myself to be pretty cool. I have interesting style, speak well, sing well, play guitar well, listen well, write well enough, have interesting and trendy hobbies (bike, hike, sail, woodwork, reading), I am a leader of sorts (RUF, Camp, various jobs/clubs), have many friends, have a sweet house at home and a sweet family in it, attend a sweet college and live in a cool house, do homework on a laptop listening to an ipod through a sound-system, drink tea from a mug and text friends on my cell phone. My build is moderate, my hair is thick and curly and people like it. I have some facial hair (though it remains incomplete). I’m good at dancing, and listening, and building, and photography. I have a sweet camera, a mandolin, and I made two wooden drums. I really like my family, and they love me well, and I really like my friends, and they love me well. I like almost all the things I have, and almost all the things I do, but I don't really like myself.

I should be cool, by all accounts. Maybe I am. But I'm afraid all of that means nothing to me, at this point. I don’t really find any of that to be important. Value does not come from any of it. I feel, with Paul, that all my best are nothing but dirty cloths.

And this is what I don’t like. I’m not sporty. I am not THAT good at guitar. I let my friends down, all the time. I let my family down. More than either, I let myself down, as my expectations for how I should love my friends and family are never met. I don’t have time enough, and the time I do have is not used as well as it could be (I suspect). And I doubt. I wrestle with doubt ALL THE TIME. More in the winter. Summer is usually better. I question the existence of God and the personhood of God, the trinitarian nature of God, the love of God, my position in relation to God, the role of someone in God's kingdom, the role of the church, the meaning of ministry, the meaning of love. Which is part of the reason that I have no idea what I’m doing next year (another thing I don't like). I have spent much of my life attempting to prove my relationship with God, to find security in his voice to me, or my ability to exercise the miraculous, to lead, to know scripture, and so I spend much of my time now wondering if I know Him at all. Sometimes I wonder if I want to. To know God is not a light burden, and yet it is. Death to self is a release of all weight, and yet it is the heaviest of all things.

No, not all of my pursuit of God was useless or wrong. Much of it has come out of excitement over understanding God, which is a good thing. I won’t repent of that, at least not now.

But I still was not pursuing him as a response to His love for me. And that is what I don’t like most of all. I don’t always believe God loves me. Sometimes I do, but other times I don’t think there’s a chance. Because I don’t like myself all that much.

GOD

Why would an omnibenevolent omnipotent sovereign God have hell? Free will gives an excuse, but it feels false. God created the world, and everything in it- even if he started billions of years ago, the placement of each atomic particle is largely what determines our presence today. We are but nature and nurture. But even our nurture is from nature’s many years, and influences. Nature vs nature more removed. And creation is the Lord’s.

I feel so desperately that I need a systematic theology to understand God. Yet, I know in Him there is freedom, o such sweet freedom. And in Him there is joy, o what joy! And peace, and true reconciliation. I believe it, even when the taste has faded from my tongue and when the twinkle has faded from my eyes. O, it is true. How can you, the God I know of love and strength, let those you love walk away from you?

Dear heavenly Father, my heart is broken for those I passed today on the highway, for those in New England and the the Bible Belt and Ukraine and North Korea and South Africa and China and France. Are you answering my prayer that my heart would break for what breaks Yours? Oh sovereign God, how does your heart break at all? And yet it does! oh Father it does, for your children, your rebel child Israel, your pharisaical church, your doubting children who squirm in their uncertainty instead of dance in Your love. For those you made, those whose hairs you have counted. Those whose smile you molded, just so. Oh dear God, how can this be? How can your heart break like this? How can mine?

Sweet compassion, from your eyes, raining on sinners and saints alike.

Compassion in my eyes too.

Monday, in Brief: VH 5

This was my Monday, the paragraphs borrowed from an email.

I got up, showered, prayed with the house. Then I sat in a chair in the library and read some Brennan Manning (Abba's Child), then sat and prayed/rested in God a bit. Prayed that prayer I wrote on my last post. I felt that that was a true prayer, that it defined my position and declared motion. It was very good, and encouraging. Then to homework.

It took way too long to prep for a presentation, so I didn't finish prepping. and I did not finish my reading for short fiction. I didn't get my online assignment done. I barely made it to class. I botched a convo with the professor afterward. Then, on to the next class, in which I had forgotten to revise my IRB application. And my presentation notes wouldn't open on the computer. So, after a brief consultation with the professor, I ran back to my car, flew back to the house (within the speed limit, of course), got upstairs, started to print the paper. While my computer loaded (takes forever) I ran downstairs to review the last chapter of the book that I hadn't read but seemed important. I immediately discovered, to my chagrin, that I had left the book (on which I was presenting) back in the classroom. No review, then. Finally, I collected the newly printed outline (not at all ready to present) and got back in my car.

That's when I noticed the smoke.

Now, following the rest of the day's events, the smoke would likely be coming from my car. But no, that was last week. Today the smoke was coming from down the road. So I headed off to campus, but towards the smoke, just to see what was up.

The house on the corner's yard was on fire. And the day was super dry and super windy- fire flying back and forth across the yard. I was the first one to stop, called 911 and watched as the big beautiful cedar trees were incinerated. The fire hopped the road twice, catching the edge of the woods and more grass on fire. The firemen eventually arrived and put it out before it really spread or reached our house, but not before I realized that, had I not been completely unprepared and not-in-control, I would not have been there to call the fire department. Who knows what would have caught. I mean, other cars pulled up after me, phones out and all, but man. Isn't it wild that even our weaknesses and inabilities can be used by God for really big things?

A Brief Narrative, and a Prayer: VH 4

Here, in a few words, is my answer to a question posed in an interview for a summer internship.
I thought you, the reader, may like to read it. It came out of my sharing of my testimony (narrative) with the house here and a subsequent conversation with Michael.
----------------------

When and how did you become a Christian?

I was raised within the Church, and followed Christ as instructed from childhood, as default. In 6^th grade, on a youth retreat, I first encountered God as an all-consuming reality. Specifically, it was there that I first became aware of the gravity behind the death of Jesus for my salvation. I saw my undeserving-ness, and his unexpected, underserved grace. There I started to follow him consciously, some out of guilt, some out of love, some out of wonder, some out of joy, some out of duty.

Really, sometimes I feel like I’m constantly becoming a Christian. I have been absorbed with pursuing God with reason, seeking to know Him but also to figure Him out, reading His word sometimes as a letter but often as an instruction manual (reading for information, not to know Him), attempting to validate my faith to myself and to others by my understanding. I have been infatuated with ministry, looking for the proper expression of a desire and love for God and others, but also seeking to define myself and know that I know God through my work for Him, counseling and leading, worship and practicing the spiritual gifts. I have been consumed by the desire to hear God’s voice, to know Him intimately, sometimes driven by love and joy, but often driven by guilt and fear, wondering if I know Him at all. Even now, I am seeing both how He has drawn me in, and how I have run towards (and sometimes past) Him, away from (and sometimes into) my own insecurity, guilt, and fear. I am seeking to know him now as Father, to know His love for me as his son. It is hard.

These are the movements of my life, and the ways in which my faith grows (and has grown), and the ways my insecurities are (and have been) revealed. If I look at it in this way, it makes more sense to say that God has been continually calling me to repent and follow, and I have been continually turning to do so, faltering and becoming frustrated, being called again and rejoicing.

In short, 6^th grade at a retreat. In long, every day by grace.

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A Prayer, on Valentines Day Morning

Jesus,
I think I need to trust you historically
so I can love you presently.
I need to say "what you have done is enough-
what you have done secures me-
what you have done, have done, have done
gives me joy, peace, rest, love.
You were, and so you are, and so you will be."
I pray for grace only to believe You,
to trust You,
to love You.
Let me look at you, Jesus, and rest.
2/14/2011