Intertwined, Part 3

When I woke again, it was light outside, and the storm had passed. The bed was empty, save me, so I got up to eat breakfast and look for him. I made my way into the kitchen and made some toast, then wondered out onto the porch to sit and enjoy the crisp air and beautiful scenery brought on by the morning. The air was damp, from the rains the night before, and cool. The ground was damp, too, and the rocks glistened with a slippery grin. The bark on the trees was dark, making the contrast between the brown of the trunk and the green of the canopy even more picturesque. A slight fog seemed to rise over the forest in the opposing side of the valley, and it seemed to tumble lazily into the valley below as if it was on a stroll to greet me good morning before the sun stepped out from behind the mountain and burned it away.

I had sat on the porch for maybe five minutes when I heard a familiar voice urgently calling my name. I casually walked down the narrow road, following the sound of his voice, and found him high up on the embankment. He was obviously excited about something, and as soon as he caught sight of me, he started saying something rather quickly that I couldn’t quite make out. Staying on the road below him, I walked over to where he stood so that we could talk, and as I did so the steep incline of the embankment and the narrowness of the road forced him to step closer to the edge to maintain eye contact with me. When I finally stopped walking and could concentrate on listening I could tell, despite his rushed speech, that he was talking about the waterfall, that the storm the night before had caused it to swell, and he wanted to know if I wanted to hike back with him to see it. Waiting for my reply, he stepped a little closer to the edge. I paused for a moment, trying to decide if I should go back and change clothes first, and in that brief second the ledge up on the embankment collapsed. My companion toppled, almost twenty feet straight down, and landed on his back in the rocks with an audible thud.

I am certain that my heart skipped a beat in the instant panic that seized me, and I rushed over to him as fast as I could. He was lying precariously off of the edge of the rocky cliff, with his right arm and leg dangling, and his left leg millimeters from slipping off. He was trying to pull himself back onto the road when I reached him, but something was wrong. He wasn’t moving right, and he couldn’t make his arms work to pull himself back onto the cliff. I grabbed his left arm with one hand and put the other under his shoulders to try to lift him back onto the road, but I was weak with fright, and his body was limp, like dead weight. I simply couldn’t do it. I decided instead to hold him there for a moment and stabilize him until I could run back into the cabin and call for help on the radio. I stopped and looked at him, and gazed into those eyes that were this time a flinty grey. He was bleeding from his ears and nose, and his breathing was hoarse and ragged. He blinked his eyes once or twice slowly, and each time he opened them, they were more glazed and flinty. I started to cry. “I’m going to the radio to call for help,” I told him. “I’ll be back as soon as I know someone is coming.” I tried to get up to leave, but his left arm held me tight, and I couldn’t pull myself free. I struggled and pulled and cried and begged him to let me go for help, but he would neither let go, nor could I pull him off of the ledge. I sat back down, drained, and held him in my arms. His breathing stopped and started, and then he caught my eye and attempted a weak smile. “I wanted you to have this,” he whispered, and he pushed his clenched right hand into my chest. I let go of his left arm and held his hand there. “I love you,” I murmured. He gave me a weak smile that I could barely make out through my tear filled eyes. He exhaled, and his eyes glazed over and lost their focus.

His body went limp and he started to slip off of the edge of the cliff. I moved to catch him, and as I did so I let go of his right hand that I had clutched to my chest. His arm swung downward, off the edge of the cliff, and his grip released, and all I saw was a brief glimpse of gold and a glitter before the contents of his hand spilled into the valley below. Somehow, I pulled most of his body back onto the ledge, my tears raining drops of sorrow onto his body all the while. I went to the radio and called for help, and after what seemed like an eternity a helicopter and a small truck arrived on the scene. They asked me questions and shined lights in my eyes and took my pulse and blood pressure. I was cold, shivering as a matter of fact, and they gave me a blanket and put me on the helicopter. As we were leaving I caught sight of them loading a stretcher blanketed with a shroud onto the truck.

I cried for days after that. Nothing seemed to fill my loneliness or ease my grief. I would sit in the rain and cry, and for those few minutes it seemed as if the whole world was mourning with me. I wondered in and out of our café, almost feeling like I was looking for something, but I could never bring myself to sit or to buy anything. Everything seemed so bland and grey and.....pointless.

I called and talked to the people who came up the mountain to help me, looking for some answers. They said that the rain from the night before must have loosened the rocks on the embankment. That is probably why it collapsed. Also, the doctors told me that he had sustained severe blunt trauma to the head, and had shattered several vertebra, so he was more than likely paralyzed for the last few minutes of his life. The trauma to his head was so severe, they said, that there was a large amount of bleeding into the brain, and that even if they could have gotten him to a hospital in five minutes, they still couldn’t have saved him. But even the answers to my questions didn’t quiet my grief, or help bridge the giant chasm ripped in my heart. Nothing but time did that.

It took a lot of time. Time to learn how to get out of bed every morning. Time to learn how to interact with people in public. Time to stand on my own without waves of grief striking me down. Time to learn how to be happy just with who I am. It took time to learn how to do all of this with a gorge through the softest part of me. But time wears down the sharp peaks and smoothes out the jagged edges until, eventually, the land is flat again. Different, but flat. And as I learned to be a whole person again, I realized that I kept a part of him with me. The parts that were subtle and rule bending and spontaneous and adventurous are part of me now; his enduring presents to me. I get to wear them, and while I may not be able to wear them as well as he did, they are mine, and they are all that is left of what he had.

Sometimes, now and again, I think that it is about time to start over. To begin again. To share some of these new things that I wear with someone else, in the same selfless way that he shared so many things with me. But I’m scared. My pain hasn’t killed me, but I’m not sure that it has made me stronger, either. I’m different than I was before. I enjoy my solitude, because I know that no one can hurt me that way. But what kind of life is that? What kind of life is it to sit here on a park bench with the pigeons on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon? One that I’m content to lead alone, I suppose. Maybe it is time to start over, to learn how to become intertwined again. Things will be different this time, as each time always has been, but the journey is part of the gift. Maybe it’s time to sit down in a café again and discuss coffee beans with someone, and find out just how far this human heart can go.

The End

Intertwined, Part 2

I'm not sure much changed between us after that first kiss. I already spent every moment that I possibly could with him, and the topics we discussed had already spanned the spectrum: from sex to God to pharmaceuticals to international politics and how they inflated the price of coffee beans for the common laborer. Only now, however, I had access to his lips almost any time I wanted, and I partook of them liberally. Many an evening he let me venture close enough to those lips to touch them to mine, and more than a couple of times we fogged the windows of his car with our passion. Somewhere in this time something inside of me changed, and I no longer wanted the seclusion of my own life, but instead what I wanted was to pull close to him and lay in the security of his arms forever.

One Wednesday morning after a set particularly hot days, we were sitting in the café eating breakfast. I was having a muffin and a cup of coffee, and he was drinking a concoction of hot raspberry tea and munching on slices he cut off of a green apple with a paring knife. We were reading the newspaper, passing the sections to each other across the table, when, as he passed me the entertainment section, he asked me if I would like to go up to a cabin in the mountains for the weekend. I was rather stunned, because we had never done anything that was planned and non-spontaneous, and I am sure that I looked at him over the entertainment section with a blank stare and my mouth hanging open. I don't even remember what I said in response to his inquiry, but I know that it must have been somewhere in the ballpark of yes because on Friday I found myself sitting in an aisle seat of a jet liner, eagerly anticipating our flight into the mountains.

We had stayed up late the night before packing and laughing and watching old movies, and both of us were rather tired, so just after lift-off he leaned his head back against his chair in an effort to get some rest. The man beside him, however, had something different in mind, and I was fortunate enough to have a front-row seat to the event.

The man nudged my companion and asked if he would like to play a fun game. My companion looked up suddenly with a startled look and simply raised his eyebrows to the man, who I think was some kind of computer programmer, judging from the laptop computer and other paraphernalia he was toting. The man continued and explained: "I ask you a question, and if you don't know the answer, you pay me $5. Then you ask me a question, and if I don't know the answer, I'll pay you $5." My companion politely declined and tried to get to sleep. The Programmer, who was getting somewhat agitated, then said, "OK, if you don't know the answer you pay me $5, and if I don't know the answer, I'll pay you $50!" This catches his attention, and wearing a smile that was so faint I barely recognized it, he blinked twice, and agreed to the game. The Programmer asked the first question. "What's the distance from the earth to the moon?" My companion didn't say a word, but reached into his wallet, pulled out a five-dollar bill and handed it to the Programmer. Then, it was my companion’s turn. He asked the Programmer a riddle, which I regretfully I cannot remember. I think that it had to do with going up a hill with a certain number of legs and coming down the hill on another number, but it was not the same riddle as the sphinx gave Oedipus. This riddle, however it was phrased, was completely unique. The Programmer looked at him with a puzzled look. He took out his laptop computer and spent over an hour on it, frantically searching all of his sources and talking to co-workers over the chat lines, but all to no avail. After an hour, he woke my companion and handed him $50. My companion politely took the $50 and turned away to try to get back to sleep. The Programmer, however, was upset, and shook my companion and asked "Well, so what's the answer?" Without a word, he reached into his wallet, handed the Programmer $5, and turned to give me a wink before he went back to sleep. It was then that I knew I was with the sharpest man on the face of the earth.

A couple of hours later, the plane landed, and we rented a car for our half-hour road trek into the mountains. The drive up the mountain was rather narrow and treacherous, with many unpredictable twists, and a wrong turn, if ever one was made, would decidedly be the last one a person would ever make as they toppled off the mountain into the valley below. The most treacherous portion of the road was just as we approached the cabin. It narrowed drastically, with one side being a rocky embankment, going up perhaps twenty feet, and the other side being a sheer drop into nothingness. Despite the insidious drive, however, the cabin was wonderful, nestled into the side of the mountain with a breathtaking overlook of the deep green valley below. Inside the cabin were all of the things one would need for a stay in the mountains: a bathroom, two bedrooms, a fully furnished living area, a rather large two-way radio, and a kitchen, fully stocked. It was a little dusty when we got there, but after I swept away all of the cobwebs and opened the blinds, the light of the sun echoed off of the bright pine paneling, giving the cabin a cheerful and cozy air. I was glad to be there.

There were trails that laced all through the terrain surrounding that cabin, and with the invigorating air, gorgeous scenery, and engaging conversation I must have hiked twenty miles in that first day. My favorite trail was one that went up that rocky embankment, and then curved around the side of the mountain for about two miles until it arrived at a giant sheet of rock that jutted out from the side of the mountain. This point was a fantastic overlook of the dark valley below, and in sharp contrast, the brilliant white of an immense waterfall. We stayed up there almost all day on Saturday, talking and soaking up the peacefulness of our surroundings. The echo up there was also remarkable. We would yell things off of the side of the mountain, and listen to it bounce around us for what seemed like an hour. He would go off and pick me wildflower bouquets and bring me handfuls of wild berries, and he told me stories of ancient Indian folklore about these mountains until it was dusk, when we walked that rocky path back to the cabin. That night he tucked me in, and kissed my forehead, and told me to have sweet dreams about him. It was one of the most wonderful days of my life.

I woke to the sound of a thunderbolt so loud that the iron headboard on my bed hummed like a tuning fork that had just been thumped. Lighting lit up the night like a flickering street lamp, and the sound of the howling wind was made even eerier by the creeks and groans of the house as the squall exerted its mighty force upon the little cabin. From my window, and in between flashes of lightning, I could see the trees bend to an almost impossible degree, as if even the force of my breath would cause them to shatter into splinters. And then the rain came, splattering against my window in waves, streaking the glass, contorting my view of what was going on outside, and the bent trees suddenly became wraiths that danced in the tempest, lunging toward me then away again, taunting me.

Suddenly, I felt a hand slip around my waist. I jumped, and tried to twist away, but the grip was too tight. I craned my neck around to see who, or what, was holding me, and in the erratic bursts of lightning I saw that well-known, crisp jaw line and sandy brow hair. I stopped struggling, my heart pounding and my breathing heavy, and he pulled me close and whispered soothing words in my ear, and then took me to his bed, and wrapped his arms around me until I fell asleep.

Intertwined, Part 1

How is it that people fall into your life and you have no idea how they got there? It seems as if you wake up one morning and realize that they are in your life and you like them there. At least, that is the way it has occasioned to me.

Sitting on this park bench, I think of him, and for no particular reason. I haven’t thought about him for quite some time, not nearly as often as one should imagine. Pigeons randomly come and sit beside me and ask for breadcrumbs, some asking nicely and some not-so-nicely, but it doesn’t matter because I have no bread crumbs to give. Instead I focus on him: that guy across the park who is walking his dog. I have actually watched him for quite some time as he makes lap after lap around the winding sidewalks of the park. One lap he actually passed by my bench, and I got a good look at him. His features seemed familiar, and perhaps that is why I am remembering things.

His hair was sandy brown and curly, but smooth. Of the seemingly thousands of times I ran my fingers through that hair I never found a tangle, despite all the twists and turns and loops it took on its voyage to his neck. My hand rested there, too, on his neck. His jaw was much too triangular and sharp to touch, especially when it was clenched. That crisp jaw line bled upward into narrow cheekbones that were offset by his large, lavish eyes. His eyes are what took me the most. They were perfectly almond-shaped with long eyelashes and covered by full eyebrows that were golden brown. His eyes were always clear; never once do I remember a single red streak arcing across that ocean of white before it collided with the dynamic color of his iris. They changed color for any reason, his eyes, from the weather to his clothing to the mood he wore at the minute, and anywhere from a brilliant sea foam green to a brown so deep I would have drowned in its depths, if he would have let me.

He fell into my life when I had just come from an ugly place and bore more of its wounds than I did its scars. I have heard it said that you find your soul mate when you can finally live with yourself and be alone in the solitude of who you are. A nice thing to say, I suppose, provided you wish to live alone in the solitude of who you are. He fell into my life and I used him as a bandage until I healed, and in that time we grew together and became intertwined, he and I. Then one rainy day we were sitting in a café, and he was telling me about some cabin in the mountains that his parents owned. I remember blinking, watching him over a cup of coffee, trying to figure out how he made his way into my life, and ultimately realizing that I liked him there. Six months later all I could remember was him.

We spent hours together. Most of my waking hours and, come to think of it, most of my non-waking hours I sought him out. I didn’t spend time with him because he was endowed with good looks or money or anything so material. As a matter of fact he was not a particularly handsome or rich man, as some might call handsome and rich, but every day his traits wove a tapestry for me that was unimaginably gorgeous. I spent time with him because I enjoyed who I was when I was with him. I’m not quite sure why he spent time with me.

He taught me things that were amazing to me. Things about God and people and relationships and life in general. He saw things that no one else did, and he shared them selflessly. He was daring and subtle and knew how to break the rules without getting caught. (Now that I look back, though, he never really broke any rules, but just kind of bent them.) He knew how to be fun and crazy and wild, and walk away with no regrets because he had done nothing regrettable. He was mysterious that way, to be able to do so much and know so much without a hint of intimidation, and to be able to be almost animal in his passions while maintaining unblemished purity, and his dotty decisions were almost always proceeded by two blinks and the wrinkling of his brow. I grew to expect those two blinks just after his eyes changed color, or at certain times of the day, or when the crisp line of his jaw became even sharper.

The nature of our relationship was always something of an enigma to me. We spent a great deal of time together, and I grew to have a great infatuation with him. Indeed, more than a great infatuation, instead more of a quiet resolve to always have him around me. The time I spent with him was wonderful. We would go on long walks in the park, finding trails that no foot had trod in years, following them to the end before we would dare think about coming back again. We would sit on a bench in the pouring rain with limp cigarettes hanging out of our mouths, talking about the weather and complaining about the government; or we would lay on our backs in a field at night and count stars and talk about any topic that could possibly be dreamt up until the sun trumpeted its arrival at the horizon and scared all of our stars away. And when all of our fun was finished, and I could no longer keep my sagging eyelids apart, he would tuck me in, and kiss my forehead, and tell me to have sweet dreams about him. I loved him deeply.

In fact, I told him that I loved him. One day in the park, while the clouds were brimming with rain, we were walking briskly toward our café so as to avoid the deluge waiting to be unleashed from above, and talking about the stages normal relationships go through. Suddenly the urge welled up within me and I stopped him by the arm and pulled him close to me. I gently put my finger over his lips and told him softly, “I love you, you know.” He blinked his eyes several times slowly, and I watched as those eyes turned from grass green to a deep brown. He lightly brushed aside my finger that lay across his mouth, and then kissed me, full on the lips. It was the first time in all those hundreds of hours we had spent together that he had given me a real kiss. It was warm and wet and gentle, and his lips were soft and supple. One of his arms snaked around my waist, holding me close, while the other hand gently caressed my face. I never knew how long we stood there, or how long the clouds had loosed their torrent upon us, but rain had saturated us completely before our embrace was broken, when we walked slowly toward that café, hand in hand.

In an alternate reality....

In an alternate reality, I think I would be some sort of artist. I don't think I would be a painter because, quite frankly, I stink at painting. My Ritz painting is probably the limit of my skill.

I think instead I would maybe be an actor. I really love acting, and have even taken some acting classes at The Guthrie Theater in Minneapolis. For those of you who don't know, The Guthrie is the largest regional theater in the world. It's well-known in the acting community.

But the fact is that acting is a shifty business. In this reality, I'm not all that into shifty. Plus, I'm not good looking enough to be a motion-picture star. In an alternate reality, I would be Tom Hanks - good looking enough to be on film, talented enough to get almost any job he wants.

In this reality, writing is more my style of artistic outlet. I've written a couple of things over the years, most of which sits unfinished on my hard drive somewhere. Most of what I have actually completed is for grad school. The last completed piece I wrote for pleasure was in 1998. But in the last several months, I've been thinking more and more about writing again, with a determination I've never really felt before. This has caused me to dig up some of my older stuff to see if it was any good.

In the next few posts, I'll be putting up the short-story I wrote in 1998. It's called "Intertwined", and is a story I wrote for Melissa before we got married. Now, keep in mind that the story was written almost 10 years ago by an engineer with little writing experience, so the writing might seem a little pretentious, but the story-telling is good. Let me know what you think.

Enjoy.

Imaginary Friends

Not too long ago, one of my rapidly aging friends, Jessica, posted about a girl with a crush. Before reading more, you should go see her post here.

Jessica's post got me to thinking about a couple of things. Not the least of which is why people have such meaningful imaginary relationships that real relationships pale in comparison. What is it that makes the girl in Jessica's blog cling to this "distant acquaintance"? What is it that makes so many of us (including me) have imaginary friends that we turn to when we are lonely or hurt or tired or angry? Why do we look to a fantasy world for relationships that can sustain us and give us meaning instead of looking to real people and real relationships for encouragement? Why is flesh-and-blood less real to us than our imaginary friends?

Deep down, I think we all long for a face that will never turn away. We long for a face that will love us and accept us. We long for a face that will kiss our scars and hug us as we cry. We long for a face that will be crazy when we need some spontaneity. A face that will think we are beautiful, brilliant, and worth having around. We long for a face that intrigues us and stimulates us, and that face in turn is intrigued by us. We long to know, and be known.

But in our consumer-driven culture, friends like that seem impossible to find. I know I've never found one. Instead, friends seem like disposable cups - you use the same one until it's time to leave the party, and then you leave it on the coffee table for the host to sweep away with the rest of the garbage. Or, to put it a less depressing way, we become consumers shopping for the perfect friend just like we are shopping for the perfect pair of jeans. If they don't fit after they've been through the wash a few times, go find another pair.

Some single people think that marriage will solve this friend problem. Some married people think a different spouse will solve the friend problem. They're both wrong, because what they are really looking for are imaginary friends - instant gratification without the effort.

And this is where I think the imaginary friend problem comes from: We're scared. Because of something that has happened in our past, or something we saw on TV, or something we read in a book somewhere, we're afraid of what will happen if we let flesh-and-blood people face us in ways that mean they really know us. We fear being rejected and hurt by flesh-and-blood people whom are outside our control. We fear the work it will take to actually get to know someone else - warts and all. We fear being vulnerable because we are afraid that some how, some way it will come around and bite us.

So we chose our safe imaginary friends. They're no work - they don't disagree with us or disappoint us or challenge us. It is impossible for them to hurt us, so there is no risk. These imaginary friends are perfectly harmless, perfectly lovable, and maintenance-free. They are completely under our control at all times, with a 100% moneyback guarantee. We know that without a doubt that they will fit.

Real relationships are scary and hard and time-consuming. Of course they are - that's what makes them worth it! In the past couple of years since I have grown tired enough of my imaginary friends to actually risk getting hurt, I've noticed something interesting. This issue with imaginary friends isn't just a personal issue, it's also a spiritual one. The more I've been willing to risk myself for the sake of making meaningful relationships, the more I've realized how I treat my relationship with Jesus just like He is an imaginary friend - harmless and controllable. (Instead, I've realized Jesus is far more disturbing than we give him credit.)

Does anyone besides me wonder how on earth we ended up with such retarded relationship skills?

I don't like New Year's Resolutions (but have one anyway)

I don't like New Year's resolutions. I'm not entirely sure why. It seems to me that if something is a good idea at New Year's, it is a good idea before New Year's, so why not start now?

I suppose if it was a birthday resolution, I would feel better about the concept. I mean, turning 25 or 30 or 40? THAT'S a milestone that might make a difference to someone. But the dawn of the year 2007? That's just another day. Good ideas are good any day.

The title of my post is a bit misleading, because I don't really have a New Year's resolution, it just happened to be something I resolved around the time of New Year's. To be honest, I think I made this resolution sometime before Christmas.

I don't want to go into too much historical detail about why I'm like this, but my internal spiritual life is much, much more radical than my external spiritual life.

So, for most of my life I've lived two lives. I live this life that people see - I show it at Church and at work. I show it when I go back and visit my family, or when I'm at a party. Everyone who has actually met me has seen this life. This is my outside life.

But inside, there lives another life. There lives a life that questions and struggles. There is a life that has slowly, over my meager 30 years, pieced together a way of thinking and living that seems to be foreign and radical to those who know my outside life. This is my inside life. It is a life that is hidden away.

I don't want to seem like a whiner, but because of several bad experiences I've had expressing the formulations of my internal life, it has been kept carefully locked away for fear of being rejected, misunderstood, reprimanded, or worse. To live in constant fear of rejection by the very Church who's task is to sharpen me, exhort me, and love me (and I, them) is no way to live.

So, this is my resolution. I resolve take the risk of being radical in front of my church and my Christian friends. I resolve to put myself out there - exposing my secret and fleshy parts in the hopes that I can teach others, if only by example, some of the powerful and life-changing lessons God has taught me. I resolve to not act like it is okay that supposed "Christians" are totally complacent in their spirituality, but instead work to provoke them into the kind of life Christ lived by either disturbing them, or energizing them. I resolve to be the change I wish to see.

I have no idea what will happen. My church might run me off. My provocative comments might get me into trouble. Or, I might find a group - a very small group - who, like me, want to go deeper than "church" can take us. It's time to take the risk.

Why Jesus was special.

I like to reflect on religious holidays. In the western Christian tradition, there is Epiphany, Lent, Easter, Ascension, Pentecost, Advent, and Christmas. There are some others in the eastern tradition, but I'm not as familiar with them.

Unfortunately, in the evangelical church we don't pay as much attention to these "Christian Holy-days" as we should. Most of the churches I've been a part of celebrate Christmas, Easter and 4th of July. What a shame.

In any case, I like to reflect on our Christian holidays. And, as most of you know, Christmas just occurred. The story of Christmas usually goes like this: An angel told the virgin Mary she was going to have a child who would save the world. Joseph was going to divorce her, but an angel told him not to, so he didn't. They went to Bethlehem for a census and ended up having a child in a stable. Angels told Shepherds and wise men about the birth, and they came to worship baby Jesus (who didn't cry, it seems) in the manger after following a really bright star.

Now, let's make sure we understand the absurdity of all this. First, we contend that Jesus was concieved by a virgin. (Riiiiight.) Next, angels did a whole bunch of footwork to make sure Joseph didn't divorce Mary and Shepherds knew about the birth, but they didn't convince a shopkeeper to save a nice room for Mary. (Sounds like someone dropped the ball.) Finally, wise men came to worship, bringing fine gifts to the smelly stable, and they followed a bright star to get there. Evidentally, this bright star "stopped" over a stable, which is how they knew where Jesus was. (A stopping star, huh? Sounds to me like someone had too much egg nog.)

I say all this not because I don't believe it. I say it instead to highlight how preposterous the whole thing is. A quick check of history (and psychiatric wards) reveals that people have claimed to be born of a virgin all the time. We don't believe these "virginal births" because stuff like that just doesn't happen. Plus, let's consider the first century (and possibly second century) Christians. The New Testament was not yet formed at that time, and most likely people only had access to one Gospel. Let's say that gospel was Mark or John - neither of which mention a virgin birth, or stables, or wise men. Is their faith somehow less since they don't beleive in a virgin birth?

Here is my point. We believe the story of the virgin birth and the stable and the wise men because of what happened AFTER the birth and the stable and the wise men. We believe Jesus is the Christ not because he was born (everyone is born), nor because he healed people (others in the Bible healed people, as do modern physicians), nor because he died (everyone dies). Instead, we believe that Jesus is the Christ because he was raised from the dead, because he taught that he himself is the way, the truth, and the light. We believe Jesus is the Christ because of the power of the Spirit in the lives of the apostles. We aren't convinced that Jesus is the savior of the world because he is born of a virgin, but instead, we believe he was born of a virgin because he is savior of the world.

At Christmas we celebrate the birth of Jesus, who is God with us. But being born doesn't make Jesus special. His radical obedience to God, his liberating grace, the forgiveness of sins, his rise from the dead, and his bringing of the Spirit make him special. His unique birth is only icing on the proverbial birthday cake.

So as I reflect upon Christmas, I'm not so concerned about the biology of Jesus's birth or the quality of his visitors. Instead, my reflection leads me to praise God that Jesus came into to world to be God-with-us, not baby-in-manger. He came to be more than born-of-a-virgin, he came to be God-as-man. And that's what makes Jesus special.

Stood up at the PeGe

The sharp crack of Alethia's whip woke me from my blogmatic slumbers. Has it really been over a month since I last posted? Yup, I guess it has.

Well, those of you whom I care about should be getting a Christmas card from me sometime soon. If you don't, then I've probably forgotten about you. Or don't have your home address.

Anywhooo....

I went to Louisiana for Thanksgiving. I always like going back to Louisiana and seeing my relatives and friends. I like eating the Thanksgiving food and seeing a Sonic on every corner. I like the smell of pine trees and the way I can actually see the starts at night.

For the first time, my immediate family (with in-laws) was too big to stay in someone else's house. So, we rented a cabin in Lake D'Arbonne State park. The cabins were really nice, and the view off of the pier into Lake D'Abonne was beatiful.

Aside from spending time with both my Father's side and my Mother's side of the family (which I see not nearly often enough), I visited my old college stomping grounds. Ruston, as a whole hasn't changed that much, though it does seem like Ruston is getting a bit more comercial. There are lots of new hotels, a Chili's and other chain restaurants, a new movie theater is going in, etc, etc.

Some of the best things about Ruston haven't changed, though, and every time I go back to visit Tech, I'm reminded of how wonderful a place it was to go to college. Good education, good friends, good times. "O Tech thy halls so beatiful, thy spacious hall, thy noble trees..."

But as I wondered around the campus, and gawked at some of the new buildings, I noticed a gaping hole where Kidd used to be.

You'll have to click on the picture to see the blow-up, but that gravel parking lot used to be an 8-story women's dorm. In fact, if memory serves, that SUV is parked just about where Amy and Alethia's balcony used to be. After all the good memories I have from in and around that dorm, it was sad and shocking to see it gone. I think I remember a picture of a bunch of my BSU friends standing outside that dorm, all dolled up and ready to go to some "function". Does anyone have a copy of that picture they can scan for me?

Not to seem too sappy, but after all the nostalgia of seeing the old campus again, I was looking forward to seeing a couple of college friends in Monroe. We were going to meet at the PeGe, which has some of the best greasy-spoon type food on the planet. Sure, it's a bit of a dive, but there is just something about the PeGe that keeps me coming back. I keep telling myself it's the ice cream, but I suspect deep down that it's how cool the sign is.

Now, I don't want to name any names, but I was supposed to meet two good friends at the PeGe. Well, at least two people whom I thought were my good friends. Keep in mind that I flew all the way from Minnesota, drove from Dallas into Ruston, then instead of staying warm and snug at Lake D'arbonne, I drove out to Monroe just to see these two people. My math is fuzzy, but I think I ended up traveling somewhere in the neighborhood of 20,000 miles just to make it to our meeting at the PeGe.

Come to find out, only one shining face showed up. From what I understand, the other one didn't want to drive the 30 miles to see me. (Guess which one is getting a Christmas card this year?). In my gratitude, I let her hold my only son, whom had also traveled light-years to visit the PeGe.

Now, one might be tempted to think that my eyes are half-closed because a.) I'm really tired from life with a newborn, b.) I'm being blinded by the flash from the camera, or c.) I'm on crack (a little inside joke between myself and Stacy).

In fact, it's merely that I'm overcome by grief due to the lack of love shown me by a certain redhead.

Not that seeing Stacy didn't rock, 'cuz it did. My eyes were open almost the entire time. And we didn't talk about theology once, which is quite a feat for me. To be honest, I wasn't sure what to talk about, so I wasn't much of a conversationalist (am I ever?). But Stacy kept me entertained by stories of life as an MD, and stories of her family over Thanksgiving. She also told me how to pronounce DeSha's name, which I had TOTALLY wrong.

So, there you have it, my Thanksgiving Vacation. How was yours?

Future Thoughts / Son Sounds

On Halloween (of all days!), Melissa and I welcomed Greyson Alan into the world.

He was nine days overdue. An induction was scheduled, and we deliberately scheduled the induction for a day that was NOT Halloween because we thought that was just too creepy.



Wouldn't you know it, the little twirp decided to come that day anyway. Sigh - kids are rebelling younger and younger these days.

Or, maybe he just really wanted to see his big sister's costume. Here is a pic of her at the day care Halloween party. She's a hula girl. We really wanted her to be a princess, but she wouldn't wear the costume. I guess something about an orange cellophane skirt appeals to her Halloween fashion sense. I just get a kick out of the way she's wearing it like a middle-aged man wears his trousers. (BTW, you can click on any of these pictures to make them bigger.)










In any case, Mom and baby are doing just fine. Madelyn has adjusted to the new addition very well so far. We, of course, have taken way too many pictures to post. Below is one of my favorites. Everytime I see it, I put a different caption on it - like, "I swear, that fish was this big." -or- "Next time, let's make the canal a little bigger." I'm thinking of putting this picture in my cube at work, but I need a better caption than my tired mind can come up with. Any ideas?

On another note, I'm consistently surprised how loud newborns are. Sure, there's the crying, but that's to be expected. But the grunting, the groaning, the smacking, the constanst rustle of limbs flailing is totally out of control. In my experience, parents exhaustion isn't so much from the baby crying as it is from the parents waking up every 15 mins when the baby makes a giant, house-shaking lip-smack.


But the other day as I looked at him sleeping, I got to thinking about the future. What will my children look like when they're adults? What will they look like when they're old? What will their children or grandchildren look like? In the future, what will they know that we don't know now? What will a Christian worldview look like in three generations?

It is with that last question that I camped out for a while. Ultimately, as evangelicals, we believe in a cataclysmic end things as we know them, followed by consumation with Christ. But it seems to me that the Biblical authors thought it would come in their lifetime. It didn't. Neither did it happen in their children's life time, nor their grandchildren's lifetime. It hasn't happened for 2000 years.

Nevertheless, all my life I've heard people say, "I just hope Jesus come back before that happens." or "I hope Jesus comes back soon." People have been saying that for 2000 years. What if it is another 2000 years before his return? What if it is 10,000, or a million, or a billion years? What if our sun is burned out and our solar system destroyed by the ravages of time before Christ returns? What then?

Does such a thought change the way that we, as Christians, live our life and approach the world? Should it?

The curse of Folk Theology

I almost entitled this post "Surviving the Church", but that wouldn't have been entirely accurate. I also thought about entitling it "Christianity for Grown-ups", but that's a title I want to save for another time.

Over the past 6 years, and especially over the past year, I've felt more and more strongly about getting people to actually think about their Christian lives. To actually think through what they believe and why. To be honest with themselves about how silly sounding some of our sayings as Christians are. To be more thoughtful and reflective about things like Love, and Forgiveness, and Grace. When things get confusing or tough I want people to not throw up their hands and say "The Bible says it, so it must be true", and instead say "What exactly is the Bible saying here? Somehow, this has to make sense."

So, over the past year I've been trying things in my church to get people started. To put it mildly, it hasn't gone too well. And, quite frankly, I feel pretty beat up about it.

The problem is something I (and others) call Folk Theology. Folk theology is the kind of theology practiced by people who think that 'real' theology is anti-spiritual, that theology muddies the clear water of Christian truth, that it is a purely philosophical pusuit that has nothing to do with reality. Folk theology is what happens when people reject loving God with their minds, and instead blindly believe because they think that's what faith is. Folk theology is what happens when people love their stories about Christianity more than they love God.

Here's an example. Last week, I was talking to a group of Christians about some stuff, and as part of this conversation, I gave an example of something that Christians frequently believe, but that isn't in the Bible. They didn't believe me, so we looked at scripture, and I walked them through the issue. At the end, of of them said, "Yeah, yeah, but my old way of thinking about it COULD be true, right? Well, there you go."

This is the curse of Folk Theology. Instead of having scripture form how we should think about a certain thing, those who practice Folk Theology let how they think about things form scripture. And when that happens, people can find justification for everything. They can find justification for slavery, for domestic abuse, for the lower status of women, for hate and anger under the guise of "justice". If people chose their own stories and THEN go to Christian scripture, they can find anything they want. The Bible COULD be saying anything. (But it isn't.)

The curse of Folk Theology goes deeper, though. It's one thing to be caught in the curse of Folk Theology and not know it. That's the fault of the teachers, pastors, and leaders within the church. It's quite another thing to have the error of your Folk Theology pointed out to you, and to choose it anyway. When that happens, people are choosing to believe whatever they want. They're not choosing to follow the story of God's activity through human history, they're instead choosing a story of their own and calling it Christianity. And when they cling to these so-called "Christian" stories, even though they're wrong, they're showing that they love their stories about Christianity more than they love God's story about humanity.

Whatever happened to the scriptural encouragement to love God with all of your mind?
Whatever happened to the proverb, "As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another"?
Whatever happend to "Come, let us reason together"?
Whatever happened to the Christian intuition that we should do everything for the glory of God?
Where are the people who pant for God the same way the deer pants for water?

My fear, week after week, is that there is no one like this in our churches anymore - that they've all drown under the sea of Folk Theology.

The Greatest Story Ever Told

Some people might call me an idealist or a fool, others might call me misguided or brainwashed, but I believe the Christian story is the greatest story ever told.

I mean, think about it. The revelation of God throughout history is a wonderful story. God didn't just wind up creation like a giant clock and then let it tick away. Instead, he participated in it. He didn't just let humanity wallow in its violence and hate, but He has worked throughout history to break the cycle. God doesn't lord over us the fact that we need forgiveness, but instead we are forgiven in such a way that we are freed to participate in God's work of redemption. We deserved karma, but got Grace. As Christians, this is the story we find ourselves in - God's story.

But, like any story, its effectiveness is directly related to its ability to have psychological impact. No one sits around a campfire and tells a scary story by saying:
"This guy one time had a hook for a hand and killed people. No one knows what happened to him. The End."
Instead, they say:
"It was a night, much like tonight. After eating smores and singing songs around the campfire, everyone went off to sleep. Two minutes before midnight, a boy named John woke up and needed to use the bathroom. He wondered out into the bushes to relieve himself when he heard a sound off in the woods. A sound like cold sharp metal scraping against the bark of trees..."

Somehow as Christians we've forgotten how to tell a good story. We've forgotten how to tell a story about the God we serve in a way that viscerally connects with people. We've forgotten how to paint a picture through words and actions that capture the minds of people looking for a place to belong - a story to find themselves in. In short, we've allowed the Greatest Story Ever Told to become worn out and boring.

As a Christian, I'm appalled by this; I'm ashamed by this. And I'm genuinely surprised that the majority of evangelical Christianity isn't outraged by it as well. Instead, what I hear increasingly is that evangelical Christianity needs to have a renewed focus on its Biblical roots, and on its old theology. As if those stories are any different or more effective than the ones we've been using.

Why, I wonder, is there such resistance to change? Why is there such resitance to finding stories about our infinite God that can grip us, that can hold us in their sway, mesmerized by the very thought of a God who encompasses more than creation? Why is there such a tendancy to cling to static formulations of God when, as one of my good friends recently remarked, the most stable things in creation are things that move? Things like electrons, planets, galaxies, seasons, a kid on a bicycle, the ocean. These things are dynamic - they are moving, just like our God. Our God is constantly doing a "new thing" (Isaiah 42-43), constantly revealing himself to us through the Spirit. He is constantly bringing into contact with His infinity and revealing to us the harmonious ways in which He holds together wonderful contradictions - such as losing our lives to save it. Contradictions that tell us the first have to be last. That God became man not to BE served, but TO serve.

Yet our stories are no longer able to convey this in such a way that our culture gets it. We are no longer able to tell this story and have it be good news. We've lost our ability to be salt and light, not because we stopped believing, but because we've stopped understanding what it takes to be healing agents.

This is my quest. My quest is to understand the hurts and frustrations of postmodern life, and meet people there. My quest is to learn how to become salt and light, not by repeating the same old tired stories, but by finding new stories that speak of God in exciting ways. Stories that paint forgiveness as something that frees us for right living, not just something that gets us off the hook. I'm looking for stories that invite us in to explore the infinite God in such a way that we meet with the need for salvation within the very core of our being. This is my quest.

But it takes bravery to do it. Bravery to to teach stories in Sunday School people have never heard before. Bravery enough to be labeled a liberal because of it. It takes the courage to say that some things about the Bible only make sense after you become a Christian. It takes a willingness to talk to people about Christ without *gasp* only quoting scripture. It takes enough maturity to see God as someone who doesn't need us to run to His defense every time someone feels God has mistreated them or not lived up to the hype.

So, as I think about whether or not it matters where you come from, I've come to the conclusion that it does matter. Not because I've come from somewhere (e.g., from point B to C to D in my Christian walk), but it matters because I'm coming from a place where I will do just about anything to make the evangelion - the good news - actually good news. It doesn't matter that I came from a particular church, or came from a particular school of thought - that's old news. It matters that my actions today come from the place God has put me today.

To me, this realization has made the words "Give us this day our daily bread" all the more meaningful and special. No one wants stale bread.

What we want and what we need is to have the greatest story ever, told.

Marathon Runner

On Sunday of last week we had the Twin Cities Marathon. Somewhere around 10,000 people ran in the marathon. It was a huge event.

My coworker and friend, Joe, came in 89th place overall with a time of 2:50:52. He came in 70th in the mens. Not bad for a 26.2 mile run. I was reading about the results in the paper, and looking for Joe's name when I came across an article about this nut:

His name is Dean Karnazes, and he has committed to running 50 marathons in 50 states in 50 days. Yup, you heard me right, a marathon a day for 50 days.

Why would he do such a thing? you might ask. According to the paper, it is to "promote fitness among children".

Dude, did that guy just say he was doing it to get kids to exercise more? Cuz, I gotta be honest with you, just thinking about running a marathon every day makes we want to sit on the couch and eat a pack of candy bars. You know, for energy.

This makes me glad I'm an engineer. I'm pleasantly plump, reasonably intellegent, and sorta healthy. I have no delusions that doing what I do is going to inspire kids get into shape.

Plus, after he runs his 50, then what? Me, I'll still be able to sit here and make fun of him for a looooong time.

In any case, congrats, Joe.

Does it matter where you come from?

I've been wrestling with some theological stuff lately, and I would like to get some feedback on it. The stuff I've been wrestling with isn't the content of my theological thought, but is instead how to teach said theological thought, if it should be taught at all.

At some point in recent memory, my friend Amy - you can see her blog here - commented on the ways her fellow BSU-ers theology has changed over the years. I said something about how it would have been better if we would have known then what we know now. She replied by saying that that spiritual stage was good for us.

I'm torn on this. Was it really good for us to be borderline legalistic? Was it really good for us to be so foundationalist that we thought we grasped all the truth? Was it really good for us to be ignorant of the very complicated issues surrounding Biblical inerrancy?

Now, there were good things, too, about our faith back then. It was incorrigible in the sense that we would not abandon it despite the ambiguity life threw at us. It kept us safe and sane. It made us respectable. And it delivered us to the place we are today. It wasn't all bad.

But as I teach people in my church, especially the youth, I wonder how far to go. When they ask questions about the origin and interpretation of scripture, I wonder how far to go into textual criticism and hermeneutics. When they ask about the character of God, I wonder how far to go into theological concepts like Futurity, robust infinity, and God's relationship to evil. When they ask about Satan, I wonder if I should tell them that the Bible doesn't ever tell us that Satan is a fallen angel and that we really don't know what the heck he is or where he came from.

In short, I wonder if I tell them all the things I've learned through hard research and soul-searching if it would make them better Christians. In the Christian life, does it make a difference how you get to where you are? Does it matter where you come from?

In the now defunct Bonhoeffer book study, I came across an idea that stuck with me. Bonhoeffer says that a professor can assert after many years of work that knowledge is meaningless, but a freshman in college cannot make the same assertion. Is the same true for Christian spiritual maturity? If it is, why can't discipleship just be a workbook?

I don't know. I just don't know. On the one hand, part of me wants to teach all of the things that make me excited about Christianity. The scary part is that what makes me excited is seeing a new way of thinking about God that was different from what I was taught as a youth. On the other hand, another part of me wants to teach the same things I was taught - even though those things are borderline wrong and unscriptural - because that's where I came from.

So here's the question I wrestle with: Does it matter that I went from fundamentalist to post-conservative, or (with the proper teacher) could I have gone directly to post-conservative and saved myself 15 years?

What do you think?

Blogging in Beta - somehow I expected more

Well, I took the plunge and transferred my blog from Blogger to Blogger Beta. I figured that everyone would have to do it eventually, so I decided I would take the plunge and be one of the early adopters. Plus, one of the features they touted was being able to put labels on the posts. This is one of the features I've lusted after ever since I saw it on Wordpress.

After making the switch, though, I'm not actually that impressed. Or, maybe I should say I'm impressed beta.

The reality is that not much seems to have changed that I'm interested in. For instance, they changed how the sidebar is handled. No longer do you have to modify the (non-standard) HTML to add links and stuff to the sidebar, nor do you have to copy and paste blocks of code to arrange everything on the blog. Instead, there is a pretty cool interface that allow you to drag and drop elements of the blog around:

The problem is you can't do anything truly interesting. Sure, now you can have an archive that is actually easy to navigate, but what about adding in picture-streaming content from things like flickr or webshots? In that case, you're out of luck unless you want to import HTML code from another site.

Something else I'm less than enthused about is the way they still force you to use the standard dozen or so templates they have in Blogger. That's right, no new templates. I would have been okay with that if they would have provided tools to build your own templates from scratch, but they leave you to futz with the same old HTML code you had in Blogger. It would be truly phenominal if they allowed you to upload pictures to use as backgrounds, rather than making you host them in a place other than Blogger.

For instance, I really want to have a template that evokes a little more feel of fear and trembling than the pastel dots Blogger selected. So, I messed with the HTML code for hours, trying to get everything to look right while hosting all of the images off-site. Ultimately what I ended up with looked more like "Calm and Comfort" than "Fear and Trembling". It's not Blogger's fault I can't pick good enough backgrouds, but it is their fault that I couldn't try out my ideas in 3 minutes rather than 3 hours. (Though you can change fonts and font colors VERY easily.) I guess for now I'm stuck with my pastel dots evoking spiritual Fear and Trembling in my readers.

All in all, I suppose I'm not truly disappointed, because there are a couple of new features that I like, such as being able to label posts, and having a useful archiving tool, but I felt Blogger Beta could have been so much more. Course, it is still in Beta, so I'm waiting to be wow'd.

Oh, by the way, the other day I was cleaning out some old stuff, and I found a video tape of a BSU Chapel Service that included Joe and Amy's Family group playing "Welcome Back Cotter". I wonder what I should do with it?

Hi. My name is Ben, and I love music.

"Let me whisper things
You've never heard before"

Sometimes I feel like I need to go to a support group for people who love music. In my daydreams, this group wouldn't try to encourage me to quit music, but would encourage me to get more and more into it. Someone would bring a new album every week, and we would listen to it, groove to it, and deeply contemplate the lyrics. And we would be so good at it that we could make money. That way my title would be: Benjamin Rhodes, Music Lover.

"I read bad poetry
into your machine.
I save your messages
just to hear your voice.
You always listen carefully
to awkward rhymes.
You always say your name
like I wouldn't know its you..."

Melissa and I were talking the other day, and I mentioned that I love music for the lyrics - I love the message of the song. The music simply give the lyrics motion. Unless, of course it is classical music (think Bach), or an overpowering guitar solo, then it's all about the music. (Sigh...where is the philosphical-conceptual space for music?)

"But every now and then I'd swear I'd see
you standing
On a sidewalk,
In a restaurant,
From a taxi passing by."

Music to me whispers message about people I've met. It whispers things about places long in my past that I want to keep connected to. It reminds me of situations that made me laugh or cry or feel alive. Music speaks to me of God, and his connection to me. It speaks to me of myself, and my connection to God. Certain music becomes a soundtrack for a place and time. This doesn't happen because I sit down and listen to the song, it happens because my soul sings these lyrics to me - it whispers them when I think of people and places from long ago. Truth is, I sing about almost every person I have a meaningful relationship with in words that aren't mine, but have become mine. Sometimes I feel bad that I think most Christian music is technically and lyrically inferior to secular music. Then, I just pop in a new CD and all my worries fade as the music sweeps me away.

"He used to do surgeries
On girls in the eighties,
But gravity always wins."

Sometimes, lyrics frame how I think about things. When people analyze where they are in life, how they've fallen into particular patterns and situations, I think of music. I think of the way lyrics turn a certain phrase. I think of how creatively and descriptively and subjectively these lyrics describe life. They hold me hostage to ways of thinking about the world. Hostage in a good way.

"I stood on the edge
Tied to a noose
But you came along
and you cut me loose"

Music releases my inner muse. Music makes me more creative than I would otherwise be. I live in the lyrics. I find my space between the notes and words. I create whole worlds there and derive stories out of those worlds. I find meaning and purpose there. When everything about my bourgeoisie life seems droll and dull, music reminds me that there are ways of thinking about things that are full excitement and life. Music pulls me from crisis to creative.

Here are some of my favorite lyric snippets. (Can anyone identify where they come from?)

What are some of yours?

"Tears Stream
Down your face
When you lose something you cannot replace"

"Oh Simple thing
Where have you gone?
I'm getting old
I need something to rely on."

"Are the streets you're walking on
A thousand houses long?
Well that's where I belong
And you belong with me,
Not swallowed in the sea."

"Sundays were made for this..."

"On a platform I'm gonna stand and say,
That I'm nothing on my own..."

"The more skin you shared
The more that the air in your thoat would linger
when you'd call him your friend."

"I was waiting as you drove away.
The sunlight was falling
you were writing backwards
on a dusty window pane."

I'm not dead

Despite the break I've taken from blogging, I'm not dead. I've simply been busy.

Busy with what? you might ask. Well, for one, I've been trying out this new blogger beta thing, so there are some changes to my blog. I'll post on how I like Blogger Beta sometime soon, but not today.

For another, I've been working on my house. Mel and I bought a bit of a fixer-upper last year, and I've been furiously working on that while the weather is nice. That way my southern and northern friends (that's you, Alethia!) can come and visit anytime they like and not be grossed out by the 40 year old carpet in the kitchen. Or the grand canyon plastered across our dining room wall. Or the black-and-pink bathroom.

I know, I know, the post is useless without pics. So, here they are.

First, the kitchen. Here is before:
Notice, if you will, the grand canyon in the background. Notice the carpet in the kitchen. Notice the cooktop that is literally 50 years old and ready to burst into a white-hot grease fire at any moment. Notice the knobs on the cabinet doors that went out of style with the Apollo project.

Here is the middle of the kitchen remodel. This picture was taken from the opposite direction.

Notice, if you will, the exposed studs, the wiring hanging from the ceiling. Notice me doubled-over because I've probably just dropped something heavy and/or sharp on my foot for the 100th time.

And, here is the finale:

Now, it's not entirely done, but for the most part it is. Just a little touch-up here and there and I'll be done. Notice the tile floor, the modern cooking surface. Notice the track lighting for the pantry. Notice the plastic purple shoes on the floor. This kitchen really has it all.

But wait, that's not all! We also prepped Madelyn's room and promoted her to a big-girl bed!

Before:

After:

Madelyn's Grandmomma made the acoutriments, which have little fairies all over them. This picture doesn't do it justice. The room really looks nice.

To my delightful surprise, Madelyn has made the transition from crib to bed without any real problems. Good breeding and all.

And, not that anyone cares, but I also painted all the walls in the upstairs. I mention this because it I learned something important: use oil-based primer when covering old paint. I know, I know, they tell you that the latex based stuff is just as good, but I'm living proof that it isn't. If the paint you wish to cover looks like the chalky white paint in your grandmother's hall, use oil-based primer on it. For the love of God, use oil-based primer. That's all I'm gonna say about that.

But, after learning that hard lesson, I was able to finally work on the living room.

Before:

Notice, if you will the people having a good time even though the place is a mess. That could be you.

Also notice the chalky white paint that crawled out of the deepest pits of Hell.

After:

And, while I think that the place looks nice, it takes it's toll.

Here is me before:

After:

Yes, the fumes from oil-based primer are so strong they willl knock out your teeth and turn you into an old chinese man.

But it is soooo worth it.

Everybody likes change.

I'm taking the plunge and switching to the new Blogger Beta to see what I think. You'll see some changes to the site, and after I get everything worked out, I'll put some posts up.

They might even be interesting.

That's what I've been saying!

To quote Doug Padgitt, "That's what I've been saying!"

Except the way I say it is not as funny, and more confusing. This isn't for the easily offended, but it's not too bad.

http://www.jhuger.com/kisshankbutt.php

The other side of the narrow way

After I got to thinking about my last post on the narrow way, I got to thinking that it was incomplete. Without a doubt, I believe that finding the narrow way is more about finding the path that, for you, leads to balance, though not in the yin-yang sense. But the Christian life isn't just about a single individual finding the narrow way. The Christian life is also about communities of hope, healing, and salvation.

As I think about the interaction between the two - being a single individual and being in community - I find myself thinking a lot about the writings of Soren Kierkegaard. Kierkegaard lived in the mid 1800's and said (among lots of other things) that truth is only helpful if it is internalized in such a way that it becomes an integral part of the living and thinking of the single individual. In this way, truth is subjectivity. Truth must be turned inward and made your own.

This has special implications for the narrow way, and it's other side. The narrow way is what happens when the truth of the infinite God starts to color our days and become internalized into the single individual. The narrow way happens when we try to figure out how to make truth mean something to us, rather than it just being something we are taught, or something "Baptists believe" (instead of "I believe"). But the other side of the narrow way has to do with the teleological purpose of embarking upon the narrow way. (Teleological means end goal or end purpose. It's a cool word - you should look it up if you don't already know what it means.)

We don't just travel the narrow way for our own benefit, as single individuals who are searching
for truth. That might be why we start on the narrow way, but at some point we look around and realize that we need support through the ambiguity and pain we experience as we internalize truth. We look around and realize that other people are on a journey, too, and that our experience might be able to help them on their way.

At some point, we gather together to take care of each other. We come together, realizing that we have all been wounded as we've walked upon this razor's edge called the narrow way, and want to help each other. We want to reach out to those who have fallen off of the path, on one side or the other. We do it because we understand the hardships of the narrow way - we know how easy it is to get off track and end up in a place where you don't want to be. And even though some of us are in a place we hate, we aren't able to admit it, but instead desperately wish someone would break in with a message of hope to guide us onto the path of real life.

Some of us have never been on that path before. Others of us have been on the path before, but have forgotten how to get back on it. The other side of the narrow way is something I can't describe. It's not community - that's actually part of the narrow way. The other side of the narrow way is not a "way" at all. The other side of the narrow way is what happens when people go anywhere and everywhere precisely because they're not really going anywhere at all. It's what happens when people try things just to feel alive, or try to fit in, or try to be something that we're not all for the sake of finally becoming something. But the more people follow this road to nowhere, the more we realize how far into despair we are, the more we realize that everwhere we go we are a visitor, in search of a home. We realize that we might never reach a place where we're satisified, never reach a place where we are loved in such a way that we don't constantly have to seek out more love, never reach a place where we can let go and be ourselves in our pursuit of good things because the truth of the infinite God has never started to become OURS, a part of us.

Teleologically, we, as Christians, embark upon this narrow way so that we can offer up some hope against the other side of the narrow way. We come together and form communities of believers in order to help each other on the journey, and in order to show others how to let the journey begin. These communities are sacrimental - they are something that brings others to a point where they are willing to start internalizing truth in such a way that it can actually make a difference in their life. As outsiders look upon the sacrimental community they should see the difference the narrow way has made in our lives - how internalizing truth has changed everything, and as a result want to try it for themselves. They're not going anywhere anyway. And as the truth hits them, as it becomes their own, one piece at a time, they begin to understand the value of the narrow way.

Why do we do it? Why do I do it? I do it because it was done for me. I do it because there was a dark time in my life - not so long ago - when I found myself in a place I couldn't get out of, a place that I didn't want to be. No one was there to help me - no one was there to discover the pain I kept hidden. But instead as I screamed at God in bitterness I realized that there was someone who came to show me how to get out of the quagmire. He came and gave everything he had - he allowed himself to be crushed for my "transgressions" - for the way I've wondered off the path. And as he hung on a tree as the reward for showing us all the narrow way, he screamed out in despair to his God, too. I do it because somewhere inside me I think I understand part of the pain he experienced while traveling the narrow way. I do it because I want to reach out and help that savior of the world as he cries out in despair. I do it because as I have internalized the truth of the infinite God, I have come to understand he wants me to look into the face of people at church, at work, at school, in the mall, and see the face of despair looking for a savior. They're not looking for the exact same path that I am on, but each and every one of them is looking to leave the the other side of the narrow way. They're looking to find the same truths that I've found, and embark upon the narrow way of making those truths their own.

The Narrow Way

About once a year, my church asks me to preach because the pastor is gone. This week is my week. While I usually feel like I have something worthwhile to say (does that make me arrogant?), I'm also stressed out about it. I'm a much better writer than I am speaker, and if I must speak, I do much better if I can interact with people and ask questions while I'm teaching. Maybe I'll give an update on how it went on Monday or something.

In any case, as I've been working on my message the past week, I realized the exact way in which I think of the narrow way. If anyone has been a close reader of my blog, they'll realize I refer to Christianity as the narrow way a lot, and truthfully, as I live each day looking for the face of God, I consciously think about the path I take as the narrow way. To me, following the narrow way and being a Christian are synonymous.

But, what do I mean when I talk about the narrow way?

When most people I have met think of the narrow way, they think of something that is a path through the woods. The entrance to the narrow way is hidden - you have to look and look and look for it, but once you find the trailhead, the path is faint but clear, and it winds through the mountains and valleys of life all the way to God. The path never splits or disappears completely, though sometimes it might be hard to see, but if you are diligent and pay attention, you'll never have a problem staying on the path. Sure, trials will come and sometimes the route the path takes will be difficult and full of stress and pain, but the path itself is clear.

But what if the narrow way isn't like this at all? What if the narrow way isn't a path that someone else has blazed that you get to follow, but is instead a path that you blaze yourself as you try to navigate life? Or, what if the narrow way has nothing to do with paths at all?

Real Christians know that the Christian life is full of ambiguity as we approach a world full of sin, and we all know that the Christian life is full of pain as we slowly learn to take up our cross daily and follow the example of Christ. But the fact of the matter is that every step each one of us takes as single individuals is unique. No one has ever taken the path I've taken before, having my same experiences with ambiguity and pain. The path I take is mine alone, as I try to integrate the experiences I've had with a God who constantly touches me and colors my days. My path (and yours) is unique because I am (and you are) unique.

So if I am to really take full advantage of what God is trying to teach me, I can't just follow someone else's path - I must follow the unique trajectory God creates for me. But this is scary, because as I blaze this trail I could get it wrong and hurt myself or someone else. It's scary because I could easily fall into the trap of just going through the motions that someone else has done, and thereby lose the unique message God has for me.

So, I walk on a razor's edge. On the one hand, I don't want to grieve the Spirit of God as I simply follow the motions of people who've gone before me and ignore the unique opportunities meant entirely for me. And on the other hand, I don't want to descend into chaos as I pursue every heresy in creation looking for something new and cool. It's like I'm walking a fine line on the top of a mountain. There is no path. The going is treacherous and fraught with peril. Falling off the one side means I sell out and take the easy way, which is to simply do the same things people before me did. If I fall off the other side it means that I've descended into chaos and heresy as I blaze a trail that has nothing to do with where God wants me to go.

This is probably why I also think that individuals work out their salvation in fear and trembling. Christians walk this tightrope - this narrow way, and in fear and trembling take each and every step as they navigate the ambiguity and pain of following Christ's example. This is also probably why I find so much meaning when the apostle Paul says in Acts 17:

26From one man he made every nation of men, that they should inhabit the whole earth; and he determined the times set for them and the exact places where they should live. God did this so that men would seek him and perhaps grope for him and find him, though he is not far from each one of us.

God sets us up uniquely in time and place, and did it that we might perhaps grope for him. Not find him as if we started walking upon a path and stumbled upon his cottage, but grope for him.

Interestingly, this means that we lose control of our ability to find God on our own, but we become more and more dependent on Him to reveal Himself to us through Christ, and through the Spirit which indwells us. And it is precisely with this loss of control, in finding our true identity in the uniqueness of our path as we relate to God that we find hope and freedom and life.

I don't know about you, but to me the source of this hope and life seems so strange, so counterintuitive that I can't help but ask as I navigate the narrow way, "What kind of God is this?"