This wasn't the blog post I was toying with writing, but it's on my mind NOW, and I have time NOW, and so I am going with it! (Two blog posts in as many days. Try to maintain your seat.)
I'm a natural homebody--I've never been the sort who liked to go "out," whatever that entailed: in high school, the mall; in college, the clubs; in my twenties, the bars. I enjoy spending time with people, but I prefer small groups to large, and the standard bar scene brings out the old lady in me ("Why is the music so loud?!" "Could that woman's skit be any shorter?! JEEPERS CREEPERS!").
And now that I live alone again, I spend a good deal of time on my couch, reading or watching movies (or blogging, ha ha). I It's just the sort of person I am: snuggled up with a book and a beverage and a candle (a fire would be preferred, but without a fireplace, my landlord might object to that part) are my ideal evening, weeknight or weekend. I love to entertain, but if we're talking day-in, day-out behavior, that's me.
But I was noticing in the last several days that I sometimes mistake that preternatural leaning for idleness. I get this expectation that I have free time, therefore I should bask in it and do nothing. And while there is an absolute need for rest, I think there's a reason for the biblical (and, at one time, cultural) concept of one day of rest for every six of work. Because excess rest is addictive, and potentially as problematic as too little.
I've been noticing this because, coming out of the Christmas season, I have had, perhaps, a glut of rest. I just had a week of vacation in late November, and so was not necessarily desperate for time off again so soon, but I had a four-day weekend last week and a three-day weekend this week, and meanwhile a few of my normal responsibilities have been back-burnered during the holidays, so I've had extra time after work, too. But I got sick of sitting around, and sick quickly. I started feeling like a Neanderthal, slugging around, knuckles dragging the carpet. So I started doing stuff, mostly out of boredom--and then noticed that the more I did--whether it was cleaning and making meals for the week, or working on my brother and sister-in-law's long-overdue Christmas present, or hanging the photos on the wall (3 months after moving--that's a record by a long shot)--the better I felt.
I hope this isn't inspiring you to throw things at your computer--I promise, in a couple weeks I'll be manic again, as usual, and then I won't recognize this over-rested version of myself as human, either--but stick with me for a minute. I don't think we're wired for nothing. As much as we're told that absolute bliss is sitting on a beach somewhere far away from obligations and responsibilities, I don't think we would do well in that environment for long. A little rest, a little vacation, a little downtime? Absolutely. But a lifestyle of it? I think we were wired for something better than that, something more connected and messy and disorganized. Humanity comes to mind.
For most of this weekend, I could have sat on my couch and watched The Two Towers and all the making-of featurettes that come with it. And I probably would have felt like death warmed over afterwards, like a slugging Neanderthal. But instead, I got out: I volunteered my time, I spent time talking with friends who needed an outlet, I got things done around the house, I walked all over my town to and from errands. And now I'm tired and achy and want to curl up in a ball, but I feel good.
Don't mistake this for How Awesome Am I talk--I'm just saying, 7 days of rest and I've figured something out. I'm sure I'll need to figure it all out again in a month or two, but for now, I'm feeling very pleased with myself and with what God's shown me about how he made me today.
That's it.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Monday, January 2, 2012
New Promise in the Land of Unknowns
Part of my reason for maintaining a blog--why most people would just keep a journal, but somehow the potential posterity keeps me (slightly) more accountable--is to be able to look back and see where I've come from, what I thought and felt, and what pretty words I came up with to describe it. And some months ago, I wrote the following:
I am what seems to be a dying breed: the truly, contentedly single. God sets the desires of my heart, and He intends to give them to me in divine timing, unfolding a plan of the most complex, beautiful, perfect design. Whatever it is, I'm confident it will blow my mind, knock the wind out of me, and drop me to my knees.
Well, dang. Who is that chick, and has she written a book or something? (Hint: no.) I do believe that I was in that place in September, but it's just not where I'm batting from these days. I elect not to blame the holidays, thought they play into it--I've just been in a funk. If all the cards are on the table, I'm sick of waiting. What's the holdup? I'm done. Ready for my man. Let's do this. And before I even apologize for whining, I'll say that I caught myself inadvertently giving myself some excellent, convicting advice yesterday. I was catching a friend up on an ongoing saga, and I was paraphrasing advice that I had given to a friend. Both he and I are dealing with similar issues, on different scales: Living life while a God-given promise goes unfulfilled. (We'll save the details of that for another post--just go with me for now.)
I am what seems to be a dying breed: the truly, contentedly single. God sets the desires of my heart, and He intends to give them to me in divine timing, unfolding a plan of the most complex, beautiful, perfect design. Whatever it is, I'm confident it will blow my mind, knock the wind out of me, and drop me to my knees.
Well, dang. Who is that chick, and has she written a book or something? (Hint: no.) I do believe that I was in that place in September, but it's just not where I'm batting from these days. I elect not to blame the holidays, thought they play into it--I've just been in a funk. If all the cards are on the table, I'm sick of waiting. What's the holdup? I'm done. Ready for my man. Let's do this. And before I even apologize for whining, I'll say that I caught myself inadvertently giving myself some excellent, convicting advice yesterday. I was catching a friend up on an ongoing saga, and I was paraphrasing advice that I had given to a friend. Both he and I are dealing with similar issues, on different scales: Living life while a God-given promise goes unfulfilled. (We'll save the details of that for another post--just go with me for now.)
In the various parables of Jesus, the only case (that I can think of) where waiting is acceptable is when it's in reference to God--waiting for the return of Christ, for the coming of the Kingdom--and even then, we're not to be ONLY waiting. Back to back (Matthew 25), Jesus tells two stories: one about virgins waiting for a bridegroom, the other about servants left with money in their master's absence. Taken together, the point Jesus makes is simple: be ready, be waiting, be prepared--but don't just sit and expect showing up to be enough.
(Sidebar: In rereading the parable of the ten virgins just now, something struck me: five were foolish and five were wise, but, "The bridegroom was a long time in coming, and they all became drowsy and fell asleep" [v. 5, emphasis mine]. Without reading into that too much, I'm going to deduce that even the wise are allowed to get tired of waiting.)
I have a promise, if for nothing else, that God will take care of me and meets my "needs"--physical, emotional, spiritual. But sometimes the bridegroom is later than we expected. At best, we fall asleep; more often, I'm pacing in the dark, getting madder by the minute.
Every year about this time, two things happen simultaneously in my brain: I get mystified and fed up with talk of "this is the year" and resolutions and promises, and I end up, through subliminal whatevers, making these little discoveries about myself that shift the ways in which I want to live. It's not a New Year's thing, it's an understanding that I am being made new, I am on the edge of a new future every day, whether it's January or August. But I guess the corporate mania of the new reminds me of what is always true.
How do you live in the shadow of promises unfulfilled? How do you deal with the worry--the threat--that you've grossly misunderstood something, that you didn't get a divine memo, that you'll look a fool? I don't know, but I've got some good pointers:
"'You are my witnesses,' declares the Lord, 'and my servant who I have chosen, so that you may know and believe me... Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I will make a pathway through the wilderness. I will create rivers in the dry wasteland.'" - Isaiah 43: 10, 18-19
"'This vision is for a future time. It describes the end, and it will be fulfilled. If it seems slow in coming, wait patiently, for it will surely take place. It will not be delayed.'" - Habakkuk 2:3
Every year about this time, two things happen simultaneously in my brain: I get mystified and fed up with talk of "this is the year" and resolutions and promises, and I end up, through subliminal whatevers, making these little discoveries about myself that shift the ways in which I want to live. It's not a New Year's thing, it's an understanding that I am being made new, I am on the edge of a new future every day, whether it's January or August. But I guess the corporate mania of the new reminds me of what is always true.
How do you live in the shadow of promises unfulfilled? How do you deal with the worry--the threat--that you've grossly misunderstood something, that you didn't get a divine memo, that you'll look a fool? I don't know, but I've got some good pointers:
"'You are my witnesses,' declares the Lord, 'and my servant who I have chosen, so that you may know and believe me... Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I will make a pathway through the wilderness. I will create rivers in the dry wasteland.'" - Isaiah 43: 10, 18-19
"'This vision is for a future time. It describes the end, and it will be fulfilled. If it seems slow in coming, wait patiently, for it will surely take place. It will not be delayed.'" - Habakkuk 2:3
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Beauty & the Truth
[Cue apologies for ridiculous lapse in bloggery. I really am trying to be better...]
I started writing this post a few days ago, but every time I came back to it, it became more ranty and tangential. (I'll give you a moment to adjust to a universe in which those words might describe me.)
So I'll simply say this: I find it sad that we think we have to change truths to make them better stories. I say this with a wink at myself, because exaggeration and elaboration are some of my finest skills, but the bottom line remains, whether I'm writing to myself or anyone else: the truth is always better.
I got thinking about this in the National Gallery of Art in D.C. this week. Walking through room after room of Madonna and Childs gets you thinking in that direction, but every painting bothered me. It's not that they weren't beautiful--they certainly were. But I kept seeing this strange alien-angel (the term I adopted at the time) rather than a real, maternal woman.
From the brief scriptural account of Mary, I can imagine her as a wonderful, joyful mother. Certainly scared and nervous as all new mothers are at times, but a woman delighting in her blessings, all the more because she'd been told (how specifically, we can only guess) about them ahead of time. But rather than a woman glowing from loving radiance and humble gratitude, this strange automaton with a halo stared back at me in the Gallery, awkwardly holding this thing that she was evidently responsible for. The expression her eyes held was not, "From now on all nations will call me blessed, for the Mighty One has done great things for me," (Luke 1:48-9) but "...What do I do with this thing?" This woman seems so concerned with being saintly--keeping her halo unmussed, perhaps--that she can't be distracted by mothering. (The photo I snapped below is the most maternal I saw.) And aside from her cold angelicness, the Madonna seen in these paintings is a wealthy gentlewoman--one can easily imagine the servant just off-canvas, ready to take the baby off her hands so she can return to her embroidery. And though I didn't get a picture, type "italian painting virgin reading" into Google, and you'll see the ideas concerning her education.
My problem with all this? It takes away from the truth. It's more powerful to me that God chose a devout but poor girl instead of a king's daughter to raise His Son. It's more meaningful that she reacted with grace and gratitude than with aloofness and sanctity. That she was a normal human being--not sinless and perfect--breathes life into what would be dull and flat. She didn't have to be perfect because, just like the rest of us, Christ would be perfect on her behalf. Find me the translation that reads, "for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, except for Mary who was perfect all on her own" (Romans 3:23).
I have the same beef with the whole DaVinci Code deal. I find it comical that the conspiracy is pitched from the angle that the Church has been trying to write women out of the picture. To me, it would be much less significant for Magdalene to be part of Christ's inner circle only because she was His wife; the fact that, in an incredibly patriarchal society, he chose to involve several women in his work speaks louder to the role of women in a faith system than if he happened to be married. Otherwise, it's just Jesus's girlfriend crashing the man meeting.
I love stories--all the more if they're true. And I think it takes something important away from them when they're airbrushed and tweaked and censored. The choosing of both Mary and Mary Magdalene is all the more special when viewed from the truths of who they really were--and all we have of those facts are a few brief verses. I can't wait to hear the whole, beautiful story in person one day. I hope they're both having a good laugh over what we've turned them into.
My story is rough around the edges, and so much the better. No one would be interested in hearing about the perfect girl who skipped to church every Sunday and always listened to her mother and was ever happy and cheerful. That my father left, that I struggled with terrible self-image and self-worth, that I gave suicide more than a passing look, that I've stumbled and made mistakes and continue to bumble around in the dark--these are the things that make my story worth reading. And because Someone showed up to redeem every false step, and to save me from every disaster--well, that's what makes it worth living. We're broken and busted up, and so we need saving from outside ourselves--to mess with Robert Browning a bit, "or what's a Christmas for?"*
Pictured: "Madonna and Child Enthroned." Gentile de Fabriano, c. 1420. National Gallery of Art, Washington D.C.
* A favorite of mine from Mr. Browning: "Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, / Or what's a heaven for?" (from "Andrea del Santo" -- a poem, coincidentally, written in the voice of a misunderstood classic Italian painter)
I started writing this post a few days ago, but every time I came back to it, it became more ranty and tangential. (I'll give you a moment to adjust to a universe in which those words might describe me.)
So I'll simply say this: I find it sad that we think we have to change truths to make them better stories. I say this with a wink at myself, because exaggeration and elaboration are some of my finest skills, but the bottom line remains, whether I'm writing to myself or anyone else: the truth is always better.
I got thinking about this in the National Gallery of Art in D.C. this week. Walking through room after room of Madonna and Childs gets you thinking in that direction, but every painting bothered me. It's not that they weren't beautiful--they certainly were. But I kept seeing this strange alien-angel (the term I adopted at the time) rather than a real, maternal woman.
From the brief scriptural account of Mary, I can imagine her as a wonderful, joyful mother. Certainly scared and nervous as all new mothers are at times, but a woman delighting in her blessings, all the more because she'd been told (how specifically, we can only guess) about them ahead of time. But rather than a woman glowing from loving radiance and humble gratitude, this strange automaton with a halo stared back at me in the Gallery, awkwardly holding this thing that she was evidently responsible for. The expression her eyes held was not, "From now on all nations will call me blessed, for the Mighty One has done great things for me," (Luke 1:48-9) but "...What do I do with this thing?" This woman seems so concerned with being saintly--keeping her halo unmussed, perhaps--that she can't be distracted by mothering. (The photo I snapped below is the most maternal I saw.) And aside from her cold angelicness, the Madonna seen in these paintings is a wealthy gentlewoman--one can easily imagine the servant just off-canvas, ready to take the baby off her hands so she can return to her embroidery. And though I didn't get a picture, type "italian painting virgin reading" into Google, and you'll see the ideas concerning her education.
My problem with all this? It takes away from the truth. It's more powerful to me that God chose a devout but poor girl instead of a king's daughter to raise His Son. It's more meaningful that she reacted with grace and gratitude than with aloofness and sanctity. That she was a normal human being--not sinless and perfect--breathes life into what would be dull and flat. She didn't have to be perfect because, just like the rest of us, Christ would be perfect on her behalf. Find me the translation that reads, "for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, except for Mary who was perfect all on her own" (Romans 3:23).
I have the same beef with the whole DaVinci Code deal. I find it comical that the conspiracy is pitched from the angle that the Church has been trying to write women out of the picture. To me, it would be much less significant for Magdalene to be part of Christ's inner circle only because she was His wife; the fact that, in an incredibly patriarchal society, he chose to involve several women in his work speaks louder to the role of women in a faith system than if he happened to be married. Otherwise, it's just Jesus's girlfriend crashing the man meeting.
I love stories--all the more if they're true. And I think it takes something important away from them when they're airbrushed and tweaked and censored. The choosing of both Mary and Mary Magdalene is all the more special when viewed from the truths of who they really were--and all we have of those facts are a few brief verses. I can't wait to hear the whole, beautiful story in person one day. I hope they're both having a good laugh over what we've turned them into.
My story is rough around the edges, and so much the better. No one would be interested in hearing about the perfect girl who skipped to church every Sunday and always listened to her mother and was ever happy and cheerful. That my father left, that I struggled with terrible self-image and self-worth, that I gave suicide more than a passing look, that I've stumbled and made mistakes and continue to bumble around in the dark--these are the things that make my story worth reading. And because Someone showed up to redeem every false step, and to save me from every disaster--well, that's what makes it worth living. We're broken and busted up, and so we need saving from outside ourselves--to mess with Robert Browning a bit, "or what's a Christmas for?"*
* A favorite of mine from Mr. Browning: "Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, / Or what's a heaven for?" (from "Andrea del Santo" -- a poem, coincidentally, written in the voice of a misunderstood classic Italian painter)
Monday, September 19, 2011
32,000 Miles Above Normal
Anyone who knows me would agree that I am a romantic. I always have been. I could give a litany of examples, but if in doubt, please take my word for it. And I'm not talking about the flighty chick flicks, the teenage romances. I mean the real stuff, the epic, the sprawling, the life-long. And while I love the stories--books, movies, oral histories--I want my own more than I can describe. More than anything else of this world, I want the big epic love story. And by that, I don't mean a perfect unblemished fairy tale. I know perfectly well that love is hard work, and commitment still harder--I have the familial history to prove it. But still I want it. A friend of mine pegged this desire well a few years ago, specifying that I didn't want to "get married," I wanted to "be married;" I don't want a wedding day as much as I want a 50th anniversary party, if you will. It's not about designing a perfect wedding day (though I plan on having a killer wedding bash, let's not kid around), but about craving the relationship and intimacy of marriage.
It's sad to me that the last phrase there has lost its power in the last century or so. I don't mean to romanticize the past, but only to say that the cultural understanding of marriage has become something different, something less than it was. And unfortunately, even in a faith community that talks a great deal of "the sanctity of marriage," the generic American Christian community has proved no better at keeping its vows than anyone else.
But I meander off my topic. (Surprise, surprise.)
I want to get married.
I have no guarantee of it. (Cue the well-meant contradictions here; but you can't guarantee it, either.) That's not meant to be self-deprecating or negative, it's just the truth.
I do have some evidences, I suppose: I find it troublesome to think that God would wire me to be so geared toward the romantic if He weren't planning on using the wiring. I've felt, from time to time, inclinations pointing me in the direction of marital love. (Any details thereof would lead to labels of crazy or worse, so I'll stay vague.) And most of the time, I have a pretty vaguely-hopeful attitude about it--a well-adjusted "someday my prince will come" mindset.
But at the moment i am several miles over Connecticut or so, and sitting on airplanes tends to bring out the introspective in me. Something about sitting so high above the world brings on a natural inclination to perspective-shift, I suppose.
So this afternoon I find myself wondering. Not in depression or fear or anxiety, but just hanging the question out there among the clouds to my right.
What if I doesn't happen? Can I be satisfied in my life without this thing I want most? And the subtext of that question, Would I allow God to change my heart so that it's NOT what I desire most?
Because I can't get behind a doctrine that says God wants us pining for something He doesn't intend to give. If we're desiring something that's not meant for us, there's a breakdown in communication. So my options are A) I am getting married eventually, just not tomorrow, or B) I'm resisting His desire to shape and refine my own.
I asked the question silently, calling it over rippling oceans of cloud. And I don't hear them echo back, "Yes; May 23, 2014. His name is Beauregard and you look lovely." But neither do I hear--by which I mean, feel any inclination toward a "No." But do I read into that?
I'm reminded of something I heard once, regarding seeking where God wants you to go: "You put your 'yes' on the table; God will put it on the map."
If I'm going anywhere in this rambling, I guess it's here: I don't know, and the not knowing is okay. I am what seems to be a dying breed: the truly, contentedly single. God sets the desires of my heart, and He intends to give them to me in divine timing, unfolding a plan of the most complex, beautiful, perfect design. Whatever it is, I'm confident it will blow my mind, knock the wind out of me, and drop me to my knees.
That's good enough for me.
It's sad to me that the last phrase there has lost its power in the last century or so. I don't mean to romanticize the past, but only to say that the cultural understanding of marriage has become something different, something less than it was. And unfortunately, even in a faith community that talks a great deal of "the sanctity of marriage," the generic American Christian community has proved no better at keeping its vows than anyone else.
But I meander off my topic. (Surprise, surprise.)
I want to get married.
I have no guarantee of it. (Cue the well-meant contradictions here; but you can't guarantee it, either.) That's not meant to be self-deprecating or negative, it's just the truth.
I do have some evidences, I suppose: I find it troublesome to think that God would wire me to be so geared toward the romantic if He weren't planning on using the wiring. I've felt, from time to time, inclinations pointing me in the direction of marital love. (Any details thereof would lead to labels of crazy or worse, so I'll stay vague.) And most of the time, I have a pretty vaguely-hopeful attitude about it--a well-adjusted "someday my prince will come" mindset.
But at the moment i am several miles over Connecticut or so, and sitting on airplanes tends to bring out the introspective in me. Something about sitting so high above the world brings on a natural inclination to perspective-shift, I suppose.
So this afternoon I find myself wondering. Not in depression or fear or anxiety, but just hanging the question out there among the clouds to my right.
What if I doesn't happen? Can I be satisfied in my life without this thing I want most? And the subtext of that question, Would I allow God to change my heart so that it's NOT what I desire most?
Because I can't get behind a doctrine that says God wants us pining for something He doesn't intend to give. If we're desiring something that's not meant for us, there's a breakdown in communication. So my options are A) I am getting married eventually, just not tomorrow, or B) I'm resisting His desire to shape and refine my own.
I asked the question silently, calling it over rippling oceans of cloud. And I don't hear them echo back, "Yes; May 23, 2014. His name is Beauregard and you look lovely." But neither do I hear--by which I mean, feel any inclination toward a "No." But do I read into that?
I'm reminded of something I heard once, regarding seeking where God wants you to go: "You put your 'yes' on the table; God will put it on the map."
If I'm going anywhere in this rambling, I guess it's here: I don't know, and the not knowing is okay. I am what seems to be a dying breed: the truly, contentedly single. God sets the desires of my heart, and He intends to give them to me in divine timing, unfolding a plan of the most complex, beautiful, perfect design. Whatever it is, I'm confident it will blow my mind, knock the wind out of me, and drop me to my knees.
That's good enough for me.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
The Gift of Falling Apart
[Drafter's Note: I hope this blog doesn't come off like I'm having crazy revelations all the time. It's just that in an effort not to make this a diary of what I did today, I tend to only come here to write when I have something substantial to say. Hence the gaps.]
A friend sent me a simple text message last night: "Chandra, I am about to fall apart."
And I know what he's talking about, and we've already mowed through all the cliches and go-to phrases of comfort and healing. I studied the words for several minutes, wondering what new words might work, and as I was wondering, this beautiful idea came to me.
We get to fall apart. I'm not sure how this idea will translate from my head to the page, but the more I thought about it last night, the more falling apart seemed a privilege rather than a problem. How exhausting would it be to have to keep it together all the time, to not have an outlet--a messy, who-cares-if-the-mascara-runs means of letting whatever is IN, out.
I hope this isn't just a woman thing, though I think it's certainly embraced more by women than men. There's a certain community when women cry at movies (or Kodak commercials), an understanding when we sometimes need a few minutes to bawl like a baby. And I don't really know if men are allowed this grace, but I hope they are, even in certain small spaces of close friendship or marriage. Because being able to fall apart is necessary. I really believe that.
"It's part of what we do," I wrote back to him. "It's allowed. A part of being human. We get to fall apart, and we get to be put back together." The best part of an argument is making up. The best part of falling apart is getting put back together. At times, this can be a human response--a hug or an encouraging talk--but, I'm sorry, nothing beats getting restored by Jesus. I recognize that this may be a strange concept for some, but there's really nothing that comes close. A far cry from cliches and empty promises, this is real healing, real restoration. All the king's horses and all the king's men may not be able to put me together again, but the King of Creation certainly can.
Falling apart isn't a malfunction. It's not an indication that we have screwed up, only an indication that we are human. We are meant to be able to fall apart, because we are meant to know that there in Something bigger than us, ready and waiting to put us back together.
A friend sent me a simple text message last night: "Chandra, I am about to fall apart."
And I know what he's talking about, and we've already mowed through all the cliches and go-to phrases of comfort and healing. I studied the words for several minutes, wondering what new words might work, and as I was wondering, this beautiful idea came to me.
We get to fall apart. I'm not sure how this idea will translate from my head to the page, but the more I thought about it last night, the more falling apart seemed a privilege rather than a problem. How exhausting would it be to have to keep it together all the time, to not have an outlet--a messy, who-cares-if-the-mascara-runs means of letting whatever is IN, out.
I hope this isn't just a woman thing, though I think it's certainly embraced more by women than men. There's a certain community when women cry at movies (or Kodak commercials), an understanding when we sometimes need a few minutes to bawl like a baby. And I don't really know if men are allowed this grace, but I hope they are, even in certain small spaces of close friendship or marriage. Because being able to fall apart is necessary. I really believe that.
"It's part of what we do," I wrote back to him. "It's allowed. A part of being human. We get to fall apart, and we get to be put back together." The best part of an argument is making up. The best part of falling apart is getting put back together. At times, this can be a human response--a hug or an encouraging talk--but, I'm sorry, nothing beats getting restored by Jesus. I recognize that this may be a strange concept for some, but there's really nothing that comes close. A far cry from cliches and empty promises, this is real healing, real restoration. All the king's horses and all the king's men may not be able to put me together again, but the King of Creation certainly can.
Falling apart isn't a malfunction. It's not an indication that we have screwed up, only an indication that we are human. We are meant to be able to fall apart, because we are meant to know that there in Something bigger than us, ready and waiting to put us back together.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Shame, Shame, Go Away
shame: [noun] a painful feeling of humiliation or distress caused by the consciousness of wrong or foolish behavior
Revelation is a funny thing. It can be some huge and dawning realization but--for me, anyway--it's more often the little things. The shades of meaning, the nuances and subtleties of words. And looking into those nuances can cause a totally new perspective on the world.
I was at a worship service last night, and I have been trying to figure out how to put that in context for people who don't participate in a faith body. I'm sure it would seem the craziest thing--call the cops or the men in white coats--to be seen from the outside. The best explanation, as usual, is the simplest: it's the provision of environment for expression. Music is typically central, but different people respond in different ways, just as in everything else. Expression has to be individual for it to be authentic. And while similar expressors will tend to find themselves together, there's a certain beauty in the cacophony of each person finding their own means of communicating the cry of their hearts.
In this worship service last night, one of the lead singers stopped at one point and encouraged the audience (a strange and inaccurate term) to seek a new revelation from God, a new experience. Not for the sake of experience itself, but to understand, on a real and emotional level, something new about God. And while I agreed with her that this would be good, if I was honest I would admit that I didn't really ask for this for myself, because if I'm not careful, I find myself in a I Know All This Already default setting.
But revelation doesn't always wait for an engraved invitation.
The new subtlety that divinely arrived in the brain last night--it could be dismissed as me just dipping deeper within myself, but I know I'm not that deep, so that ain't it--was fairly simple, but it has not let me go for, what, 26 hours or so: In addition to sin and death, God--Jesus--has taken away my shame. This is a phrase I'm familiar with, and have used often, but I registered last night that I have been thinking of it, using it, incorrectly. Because I looked up the definition of the word, and it's not actually what I've been thinking it was.
Here's how I saw it: Shame is an actual, perceivable thing, potentially outwardly so. Like Hester's scarlet letter, it is a sign and a remnant of what caused and came before it. And so the sacrifice of Christ--His taking on what would otherwise separate us from God--takes that away, cutting through the threads that would mark us as shamed. In a different metaphor, our sin leaves a scar, and the sacrifice is the balm that brings full healing.
But shame is not a scar, it's a feeling. Just look at the definition. It's what lingers, even after the letter is torn away, even when the scar is gone. And this is what the big deal is, to me. It would be enough--too much, in fact, even so--for Christ to have taken our sin, and its resultant death. How much more absurdly kind of Him to take away the outward appearance of it? But He doesn't stop there: He wants my shame, too. Not just the outward, but the inward. He wants the piece in me that still knows, that growls of what I am capable of. He can take that, too, because what good is a clean thing that acts as though it is not? It makes both absolute sense and absolute lunacy, and maybe that's why it's occupied my thoughts so much. Jesus Christ died so that I wouldn't feel bad about myself?? Are you kidding?
And yet, true. And I think this is where the acceptance aspect comes in. Christ can pay for my sins, can rebuild the broken connection between God and me, but until I act like that is true--until I accept that He didn't patch me up or give me a quick fix-up, but completely restored and remade me as new and unblemished by this Old Thing--it's useless. I found myself wrapped up in mental images last night: The first, of me being cleaned out, like scraping mildew from an old tub. You scrape and scratch until everything is cleaned off; but as the image faded in my mind, I realized that wasn't good enough. Being cleaned out isn't any good if it just leaves you empty.
And in the same way, our sin and shame aren't taken away so we can be vacuums. If I am truly freed in Christ, if I really am set free from the trap of thinking of myself all the time, what could I be at liberty to do? Because I'd still be thinking about something. I'm sorry, but I can't get behind an idea that perfection is nothing. And so if I'm no longer thinking about myself, I'm focused on God, right? And focusing on God would lead me to love others through Him. Because a vacuum isn't good enough. A vacuum will just fill up with whatever crap is lying around. But a scraped, cleaned out self, refilled with the grace of a perfect God? That could be a self worth driving around the world.
...Again, I'm afraid I haven't spun an entirely sensical narrative. But again, that's why it's a blog. Leave your thoughts, if you would...
Revelation is a funny thing. It can be some huge and dawning realization but--for me, anyway--it's more often the little things. The shades of meaning, the nuances and subtleties of words. And looking into those nuances can cause a totally new perspective on the world.
I was at a worship service last night, and I have been trying to figure out how to put that in context for people who don't participate in a faith body. I'm sure it would seem the craziest thing--call the cops or the men in white coats--to be seen from the outside. The best explanation, as usual, is the simplest: it's the provision of environment for expression. Music is typically central, but different people respond in different ways, just as in everything else. Expression has to be individual for it to be authentic. And while similar expressors will tend to find themselves together, there's a certain beauty in the cacophony of each person finding their own means of communicating the cry of their hearts.
In this worship service last night, one of the lead singers stopped at one point and encouraged the audience (a strange and inaccurate term) to seek a new revelation from God, a new experience. Not for the sake of experience itself, but to understand, on a real and emotional level, something new about God. And while I agreed with her that this would be good, if I was honest I would admit that I didn't really ask for this for myself, because if I'm not careful, I find myself in a I Know All This Already default setting.
But revelation doesn't always wait for an engraved invitation.
The new subtlety that divinely arrived in the brain last night--it could be dismissed as me just dipping deeper within myself, but I know I'm not that deep, so that ain't it--was fairly simple, but it has not let me go for, what, 26 hours or so: In addition to sin and death, God--Jesus--has taken away my shame. This is a phrase I'm familiar with, and have used often, but I registered last night that I have been thinking of it, using it, incorrectly. Because I looked up the definition of the word, and it's not actually what I've been thinking it was.
Here's how I saw it: Shame is an actual, perceivable thing, potentially outwardly so. Like Hester's scarlet letter, it is a sign and a remnant of what caused and came before it. And so the sacrifice of Christ--His taking on what would otherwise separate us from God--takes that away, cutting through the threads that would mark us as shamed. In a different metaphor, our sin leaves a scar, and the sacrifice is the balm that brings full healing.
But shame is not a scar, it's a feeling. Just look at the definition. It's what lingers, even after the letter is torn away, even when the scar is gone. And this is what the big deal is, to me. It would be enough--too much, in fact, even so--for Christ to have taken our sin, and its resultant death. How much more absurdly kind of Him to take away the outward appearance of it? But He doesn't stop there: He wants my shame, too. Not just the outward, but the inward. He wants the piece in me that still knows, that growls of what I am capable of. He can take that, too, because what good is a clean thing that acts as though it is not? It makes both absolute sense and absolute lunacy, and maybe that's why it's occupied my thoughts so much. Jesus Christ died so that I wouldn't feel bad about myself?? Are you kidding?
And yet, true. And I think this is where the acceptance aspect comes in. Christ can pay for my sins, can rebuild the broken connection between God and me, but until I act like that is true--until I accept that He didn't patch me up or give me a quick fix-up, but completely restored and remade me as new and unblemished by this Old Thing--it's useless. I found myself wrapped up in mental images last night: The first, of me being cleaned out, like scraping mildew from an old tub. You scrape and scratch until everything is cleaned off; but as the image faded in my mind, I realized that wasn't good enough. Being cleaned out isn't any good if it just leaves you empty.
And in the same way, our sin and shame aren't taken away so we can be vacuums. If I am truly freed in Christ, if I really am set free from the trap of thinking of myself all the time, what could I be at liberty to do? Because I'd still be thinking about something. I'm sorry, but I can't get behind an idea that perfection is nothing. And so if I'm no longer thinking about myself, I'm focused on God, right? And focusing on God would lead me to love others through Him. Because a vacuum isn't good enough. A vacuum will just fill up with whatever crap is lying around. But a scraped, cleaned out self, refilled with the grace of a perfect God? That could be a self worth driving around the world.
...Again, I'm afraid I haven't spun an entirely sensical narrative. But again, that's why it's a blog. Leave your thoughts, if you would...
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Red Rover, Red Rover
I’m not really sure where I’m going with this—no guaranties of a beginning, middle, and end—but I guess that’s the upswing of a blog: no editorial process. This ain’t no Great American Novel.
I have spent pieces of the morning in an email conversation with a friend, wherein both of us have been thoroughly vulnerable and transparent about past and present emotional and psychological issues. And this isn’t a close friend, either—just someone I know, but the topic came up and in we went. Nothing huge and earth-shattering, and it started as a bit of a joke, but we’ve been plumbing deep waters now for the past couple hours. And I started wondering at how natural—that’s not the right word—how instinctual, maybe—it is to go deep with someone. (And for the record, this is coming from someone who puts up plenty of walls and holds plenty back, due to the myriad issues I have.)
We’ve come to identify our culture as one of self-reliance and self-dependence, of guardedness and the understanding that trust is no longer an issue because truth is no longer expected. And while I think those are on-point descriptors of what we believe we are, I don’t know that they are truly accurate of who we are. My brain is wired not to depend on other people, particularly men, because when I was 3 I learned my first lesson in that school, and I learned that lesson well. I spent much of my life crafting a version of myself that I thought would be most acceptable to people, and I could shift that self to accommodate different audiences. And while I’ve sought and found healing for a great many of my issues, they are still in there, the default settings on synapses tucked deep between my ears. So why is it that it takes two emails and half an hour for me to pour out a list of what makes me tick (or, more to the point, what jars and messes up my ticks)?
The vaguely new-agey, self-helpy psychology we know and love seems to send a message of self-discovery and self-containment; share your energy with the world but don’t let anything in to affect you, reject anything that tries to put itself on your perfect-already self. A gospel of glass walls, perhaps. But I don’t see how that meshes with a people who seem to have something in them that wants to meld and merge, give and take. You can’t do that through, over, or around a wall, glass or otherwise. (Some would argue that some people just aren’t wired like that, and I understand having major issues with closeness, but—please correct me if I’m wrong—I think it’s still a basic human drive, to be understood and accepted and taken in by someone else. And I don’t think that’s limited to a romantic, soul-mate sort of relationship; I think it extends to even basic, relatively momentary encounters.) There remains a need to cry across the distance, to issue an invitation to run into someone's arms--Red Rover, on an emotional level.
I am resisting the urge to write some sort of conclusive, summarizing thought, in part because I don’t know that there is one. Fiction Family, my greatest musical love these days, sings, “There’s war in my blood / I’ve still got wars to be won,” and maybe that’s my only conclusion—that I am at war with myself. That part of me craves to muddle into other people, to let my guard down and love and be accepted, to eradicate any walls I see; and the other part thrashes against the embrace, struggles out and into the open where I don’t need to depend on anyone, where I can assure myself that I am fine on my own, just me and my bricks and mortar.
One of my issues I mentioned with my friend today was my need to be consistently funny, because if people keep laughing they won’t stop to wonder if I’m worth the trouble (that’s a harsh, but not inaccurate, phrasing), and so I suppose it’s fitting that I end with a comic. When I mused about these thoughts on Facebook today, my brother posted yesterday's Pearls Before Swine comic:
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