Sunday, October 11, 2009
Swing Song in Your Heart
Swing Song In Your Heart
Sunday at the dance, at the club Continental,
Sunday after Sunday, every single Sunday drawn to this Sun,
This Mecca of Merriment, this Jerusalem of Swing,
Where dancers old and young, black and white,
Christian, Jew, Buddhist and Nothing,
Are spiritually fortified by the Forties,
By the music and dancing of that golden time,
Time that Glenn, Benny, Count, Jordan and Duke ruled,
A time called Big Band, when Swing was King.
There, one Sunday, as I tucked in my spot,
I noticed a bright light in the corner,
It came from a creature, so radiant, so sweet,
That I was overwhelmed and felt the need of consorting,
To connect our voices together,
I opened my mouth and said something typically erudite:
"Uh, wanna dance?"
But then we were stepping,
And so good did it feel, so delightful the partner,
That I hoped it could continue through the dancing,
That perhaps we'd spend the night holding left to right,
Swinging out, tap stepping, tucking and turning,
Lindy whipping, hammerlocking and stomping off,
Dancing off into her arms, her lips and heart,
All this I was dreaming, of leading that light.
But then I let her go, as I have learned to do,
So we could dance with others and compare,
Then 'twas later I saw her again,
And would not miss my chance to talk alone,
To learn of her life and passions, to see if passion coincides,
And tell her of my hopes of further knowledge,
Knowledge of her kind teaching, her gentle heart,
It was then I knew: she has my number.
O Dark Blonde in a swinging sonnet,
Beautiful One in my Rock 'N' Roll soul,
Would that sweet swing song in your heart be mine.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Serenade
Serenade
by Edgar Allen Poe
So sweet the hour, so calm the time,
I feel it more than half a crime,
When Nature sleeps and stars are mute,
To mar the silence ev'n with lute.
At rest on ocean's brilliant dyes
An image of Elysium lies:
Seven Pleiades entranced in Heaven,
Form in the deep another seven:
Endymion nodding from above
Sees in the sea a second love.
Within the valleys dim and brown,
And on the spectral mountain's crown,
The wearied light is dying down,
And earth, and stars, and sea, and sky
Are redolent of sleep, as I
Am redolent of thee and thine
Enthralling love, my Adeline.
But list, O list, - so soft and low
Thy lover's voice tonight shall flow,
That, scarce awake, thy soul shall deem
My words the music of a dream.
Thus, while no single sound too rude
Upon thy slumber shall intrude,
Our thoughts, our souls - O God above!
In every deed shall mingle, love.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Burden
When last I stood by my own strength
And cursed fate for bringing me to the utmost need,
When all my striving turned to naught
Beneath the midnight sky,
When weariness permeated every fiber of me,
Leaving me with aimless thought,
Worthless, rambling thought,
When all my world shrunk around me,
Squeezing the substance of each moment
Until it burst under the pressure,
Then did I at last find strength
From behind the furthest star in the sky,
Yet closer than my skin.
Then did I give up my own strength
And Atlas' burden with it.
Then I set the world down for a moment,
Letting its stresses evaporate from my mind
With the dew in the bright morning.
Then I said, "I can't . . .
I can't carry this alone," and sighed.
Then, my time of rest done,
I picked up the world once more;
But this time, there was a hand next to mine,
And as I lifted I found that the burden was much reduced.
The hand took the brunt of the weight of the load,
And I, amazed, remembered then an old, old saying:
"For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light."
And cursed fate for bringing me to the utmost need,
When all my striving turned to naught
Beneath the midnight sky,
When weariness permeated every fiber of me,
Leaving me with aimless thought,
Worthless, rambling thought,
When all my world shrunk around me,
Squeezing the substance of each moment
Until it burst under the pressure,
Then did I at last find strength
From behind the furthest star in the sky,
Yet closer than my skin.
Then did I give up my own strength
And Atlas' burden with it.
Then I set the world down for a moment,
Letting its stresses evaporate from my mind
With the dew in the bright morning.
Then I said, "I can't . . .
I can't carry this alone," and sighed.
Then, my time of rest done,
I picked up the world once more;
But this time, there was a hand next to mine,
And as I lifted I found that the burden was much reduced.
The hand took the brunt of the weight of the load,
And I, amazed, remembered then an old, old saying:
"For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light."
Friday, August 21, 2009
The Curse of Seeing All
"'You shall see and you shall confess that I do not lie,' said Morgoth. And taking Hurin back to Angband he set him in a chair of stone upon a high place of Thangorodrim, from which he could see afar the land of Hithlum in the west and the lands of Beleriand in the south. There he was bound by the power of Morgoth; and Morgoth standing beside him cursed him again and set his power upon him, so that he could not move from that place, nor die, until Morgoth should release him.
'Sit now there,' said Morgoth, 'and look out upon the lands where evil and despair shall come upon those whom you have delivered to me. For you have dared to mock me, and have questioned the power of Melkor, Master of the fates of Arda. Therefore with my eyes you shall see, and with my ears you shall hear, and nothing shall be hidden from you.'" (Tolkien, J.R.R. The Children of Hurin. p. 65)
One of the lesser known stories of J.R.R. Tolkien is set in the First Age of Middle Earth (The Lord of the Rings, to give context, is in the Third Age). The work The Children of Hurin is technically put together by his son Christopher Tolkien, although the story was his in fragments that he never quite put together. We encounter in this narrative an evil greater than the Dark Lord Sauron of The Lord of the Rings; a helpful way of thinking about it would be to say that Sauron is like a demon in Judeo-Christian mythology and Morgoth, the Dark Lord of the First Age, is comparable to Satan.
This quote occurs at the end of a fateful battle poignantly named "The Battle of Unnumbered Tears" when a great hero of men, Hurin, is captured by Morgoth. Morgoth attempts to convince Hurin to worship him, but Hurin refuses, knowing that Morgoth betrayed and tried to enslave his ancestors in the past. Hurin mocks Morgoth instead of worshipping him, building up the Dark Lord's wrath. This mortal Hurin must be punished for his impudence.
But the punishment of choice was not death, nor was it physical torture. Morgoth didn't maim him or starve him to death or transform him into an orc (as he did elves in ages past). The torment of choice was eyes to see the whole world and ears to hear all that is to be heard. Rather than killing Hurin, Morgoth cursed him with immortality and omniscience.
What the torture came from, though, I think, is his combined impotence. He could do nothing about what was happening in the world. He simply had to sit and watch. What the book The Children of Hurin becomes after this exchange is an account of Hurin's children and the tragic course of their lives. I think Morgoth's ultimate torment for Hurin was watching his children slowly fall to a tragic end.
I got to thinking: what would it be like to be cursed like that? I quickly dismissed the idea that knowing all that happens and living forever would be great; after all, what is the use of eternal life if you can't do anything? And sometimes knowledge can be only a burden. When we face darkness and despair that we can't do anything about, knowing about that evil only torments us. It is very difficult for the human being to know, to really know and understand and watch it play out, evil and to simultaneously know that he or she cannot do anything about it. In such cases, it would be better for the person not to know what is going on.
On a more practical level, what does Morgoth's torment of Hurin show us? How can it affect the way we live? I think what it emphasizes is that sitting on the sidelines and doing nothing when evil and injustice reign is torture to ourselves, whether we realize it or not. If we see evil and do nothing, then we not only allow it to happen, but we allow ourselves to experience the ultimate form of torture that the Dark Lord could devise. And in that case, it is self-inflicted.
I'm not talking about those instances when we really, really can't do anything about a situation (although trusting in God could be something effective that could be done). I think most of us regularly face evil that we can fight but choose not to. We wrongfully believe that we are small and insignificant or, like Hurin, stuck to a chair unable to do anything. But the fact is, we are not cursed to an all-seeing chair; we are alive and in the middle of the great web of choices that is life. Unlike Hurin, we can choose to act, and that is really what we need to do, from a human standpoint. The human spirit is only content when it is in motion, when it is actively seeking the better (because this life will never be perfect, the closest thing to happiness we can reach is a state of perpetual motion toward unattainable perfection). In fact, I would argue that we are better not knowing all the factors and still acting than with knowing all the factors and being unable to act. We need to make a choice, even if it ends of being the wrong one, because not making a choice is the ultimate form of torment.
I think that we have a choice (as we are not held captive in Angband): we can choose to be stuck like Hurin (seeing without doing; living without being alive) or we can choose to do the opposite (to truly live). I hope that I can foster the kind of courage to act on what I see, not just sit in my chair and watch some more. Vision is important, but more important than the scale of one's vision is the degree to which one acts on his or her vision. These are the lessons of Hurin and his torment.
'Sit now there,' said Morgoth, 'and look out upon the lands where evil and despair shall come upon those whom you have delivered to me. For you have dared to mock me, and have questioned the power of Melkor, Master of the fates of Arda. Therefore with my eyes you shall see, and with my ears you shall hear, and nothing shall be hidden from you.'" (Tolkien, J.R.R. The Children of Hurin. p. 65)
One of the lesser known stories of J.R.R. Tolkien is set in the First Age of Middle Earth (The Lord of the Rings, to give context, is in the Third Age). The work The Children of Hurin is technically put together by his son Christopher Tolkien, although the story was his in fragments that he never quite put together. We encounter in this narrative an evil greater than the Dark Lord Sauron of The Lord of the Rings; a helpful way of thinking about it would be to say that Sauron is like a demon in Judeo-Christian mythology and Morgoth, the Dark Lord of the First Age, is comparable to Satan.
This quote occurs at the end of a fateful battle poignantly named "The Battle of Unnumbered Tears" when a great hero of men, Hurin, is captured by Morgoth. Morgoth attempts to convince Hurin to worship him, but Hurin refuses, knowing that Morgoth betrayed and tried to enslave his ancestors in the past. Hurin mocks Morgoth instead of worshipping him, building up the Dark Lord's wrath. This mortal Hurin must be punished for his impudence.
But the punishment of choice was not death, nor was it physical torture. Morgoth didn't maim him or starve him to death or transform him into an orc (as he did elves in ages past). The torment of choice was eyes to see the whole world and ears to hear all that is to be heard. Rather than killing Hurin, Morgoth cursed him with immortality and omniscience.
What the torture came from, though, I think, is his combined impotence. He could do nothing about what was happening in the world. He simply had to sit and watch. What the book The Children of Hurin becomes after this exchange is an account of Hurin's children and the tragic course of their lives. I think Morgoth's ultimate torment for Hurin was watching his children slowly fall to a tragic end.
I got to thinking: what would it be like to be cursed like that? I quickly dismissed the idea that knowing all that happens and living forever would be great; after all, what is the use of eternal life if you can't do anything? And sometimes knowledge can be only a burden. When we face darkness and despair that we can't do anything about, knowing about that evil only torments us. It is very difficult for the human being to know, to really know and understand and watch it play out, evil and to simultaneously know that he or she cannot do anything about it. In such cases, it would be better for the person not to know what is going on.
On a more practical level, what does Morgoth's torment of Hurin show us? How can it affect the way we live? I think what it emphasizes is that sitting on the sidelines and doing nothing when evil and injustice reign is torture to ourselves, whether we realize it or not. If we see evil and do nothing, then we not only allow it to happen, but we allow ourselves to experience the ultimate form of torture that the Dark Lord could devise. And in that case, it is self-inflicted.
I'm not talking about those instances when we really, really can't do anything about a situation (although trusting in God could be something effective that could be done). I think most of us regularly face evil that we can fight but choose not to. We wrongfully believe that we are small and insignificant or, like Hurin, stuck to a chair unable to do anything. But the fact is, we are not cursed to an all-seeing chair; we are alive and in the middle of the great web of choices that is life. Unlike Hurin, we can choose to act, and that is really what we need to do, from a human standpoint. The human spirit is only content when it is in motion, when it is actively seeking the better (because this life will never be perfect, the closest thing to happiness we can reach is a state of perpetual motion toward unattainable perfection). In fact, I would argue that we are better not knowing all the factors and still acting than with knowing all the factors and being unable to act. We need to make a choice, even if it ends of being the wrong one, because not making a choice is the ultimate form of torment.
I think that we have a choice (as we are not held captive in Angband): we can choose to be stuck like Hurin (seeing without doing; living without being alive) or we can choose to do the opposite (to truly live). I hope that I can foster the kind of courage to act on what I see, not just sit in my chair and watch some more. Vision is important, but more important than the scale of one's vision is the degree to which one acts on his or her vision. These are the lessons of Hurin and his torment.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Everything Is Possible for Him Who Believes
Sometimes I am amazed about the spiritual insights which just kind of fall into your lap. So I've got a Bible (several actually, but I'm talking about one in particular) that happens to be on my desk. I just kind of set it down open after I looked up a verse for something I was working on. As the day went on, I just started glancing over at the page that was open, and then an idea started to form in my head as I started reading the couple chapters that were there without regard for the little section headings, which I found highly disruptive to understanding the meaning of the text.
The most significant thing I picked up was in the story of Jesus healing the demon-possessed boy in Mark 9:14-37. I often wondered about this story because 1.) Jesus' disciples could not cast out the demon and 2.) Jesus said that "This kind can come out only by prayer" (v 29), referring to the demon.
My major problem understanding this passage was always that Jesus didn't actually pray when he cast out the demon. He just told it to get going and it went. He didn't bow down, and he didn't call on his Father's name. But still the demon was cast out, a demon Jesus himself described as the kind that "can come out only by prayer."
I think before I noticed what I will soon describe, I had some vague idea that Jesus may have been praying in his head. But the problem with this is that we can say that the disciples may have done the same; in fact anyone involved could have been communicating with God in his or her mind.
But today I noticed something different, a character we too often marginalize: the boy's father. The father comes to Jesus, telling of how his son was not able to be cured by the disciples. Jesus's response is to critique the entire "unbelieving generation" he is among, wondering how long he must endure them (v. 19).
After Jesus is led to the boy by the father, the father implores Jesus, "But if you can do anything, take pity on us and help us" (v 22). Jesus's answer is super important for understanding this passage, perhaps pointing to the central message of this pericope: "'If you can?' said Jesus. 'Everything is possible for him who believes'" (v. 23). Wow! That is a strong statement for the power of belief, the power of faith, to work wonders.
Given this statement by Jesus, it seems as though casting out a demon is possible simply by believing, both believing that it can be done and that God will do it. This has strong implications for religion today, as it suggests that we can do anything through simple belief. It is "simple" belief in that it is not a complex process of believing, but it still seems a difficult thing even to grasp. I think it's so hard to really believe; if it weren't that hard then miracles would be so commonplace that we probably wouldn't call them miracles anymore. Although it is such a simple thing to believe, so often we fail at it--I know I do, sometimes for no tangible reason at all. Jesus recognized that the crowds around him had the same problem, as he did identify them as an "unbelieving generation." The father, too, struggled in his belief, as will be shortly seen.
The father, hearing this pronouncement from Jesus immediately (Mark's favorite word) exclaims, "I do belive; help me overcome my unbelief!" (v. 24). This statement seems somewhat contradictory, as the man affirms his belief but also admits that he doesn't believe as well as he should. I don't think this is really completely contradictory because I've experienced times in my life when I've believed but unbelief was still there. Perhaps you know of what I'm talking about, that gnawing, pesky feeling that tells you everything's a bunch of hogwash? I think this man is recognizing that feeling, qualifying his exclamation of belief with a short entreaty to help him to overcome his unbelief.
Regardless of what this man's personal faith situation was at the time, what I find signficant for interpreting the entire story is that the man asks for something. He asks for help overcoming his unbelief. He brings a petition before Jesus, a request. What do all these things seem to relate to? Prayer. The man is praying to Jesus to help him overcome his unbelief. And Jesus answers this prayer, making the man's faith sight, but perhaps in a mysterious way he also strengthens the man's faith before the healing. I suggest this because Jesus just got through saying that anything is possible for him who believes. The man must have believed; that's what all this seems to imply. But he asks for help overcoming his unbelief, acknowledging the presence of his unbelief. If the boy was healed, it must have been through faith, and if the father had faith, it must have been granted to him after he prayed.
So when Jesus tells his disciples that this kind only comes out with prayer, he isn't talking about himself praying. He's referring to the father praying for help overcoming his unbelief. All this suggests that the disciples have some unbelief, but they do not pray for it to be overcome like the father did. They are limited then by this unbelief. If we apply this to ourselves (since Jesus said that this kind can only come out with prayer in a broad sense, speaking to the entire category of demonic creatures, implying that it is a general principle), it seems that the only way to truly overcome unbelief is to pray for it to be beaten. This may seem crazy but only by praying to God for him to overcome our unbelief, we still do not believe in the truest sense of the word. How can you pray if you don't believe in God, though? Maybe it's more like what the father experienced. We believe enough to recognize that we don't believe enough, and then we can pray for more belief.
Therefore, I pray that God will take away the unbelief that is hiding out in my life, limiting my effectiveness for his good work that I am purposed to do. I pray also for any unbelief which may be in your life, that God will overcome it and fill you with such a faith that you can do anything for his kingdom. May we together have the kind of faith that Jesus said could move mountains; and may the mountains be moved.
In Christ's name,
Amen
The most significant thing I picked up was in the story of Jesus healing the demon-possessed boy in Mark 9:14-37. I often wondered about this story because 1.) Jesus' disciples could not cast out the demon and 2.) Jesus said that "This kind can come out only by prayer" (v 29), referring to the demon.
My major problem understanding this passage was always that Jesus didn't actually pray when he cast out the demon. He just told it to get going and it went. He didn't bow down, and he didn't call on his Father's name. But still the demon was cast out, a demon Jesus himself described as the kind that "can come out only by prayer."
I think before I noticed what I will soon describe, I had some vague idea that Jesus may have been praying in his head. But the problem with this is that we can say that the disciples may have done the same; in fact anyone involved could have been communicating with God in his or her mind.
But today I noticed something different, a character we too often marginalize: the boy's father. The father comes to Jesus, telling of how his son was not able to be cured by the disciples. Jesus's response is to critique the entire "unbelieving generation" he is among, wondering how long he must endure them (v. 19).
After Jesus is led to the boy by the father, the father implores Jesus, "But if you can do anything, take pity on us and help us" (v 22). Jesus's answer is super important for understanding this passage, perhaps pointing to the central message of this pericope: "'If you can?' said Jesus. 'Everything is possible for him who believes'" (v. 23). Wow! That is a strong statement for the power of belief, the power of faith, to work wonders.
Given this statement by Jesus, it seems as though casting out a demon is possible simply by believing, both believing that it can be done and that God will do it. This has strong implications for religion today, as it suggests that we can do anything through simple belief. It is "simple" belief in that it is not a complex process of believing, but it still seems a difficult thing even to grasp. I think it's so hard to really believe; if it weren't that hard then miracles would be so commonplace that we probably wouldn't call them miracles anymore. Although it is such a simple thing to believe, so often we fail at it--I know I do, sometimes for no tangible reason at all. Jesus recognized that the crowds around him had the same problem, as he did identify them as an "unbelieving generation." The father, too, struggled in his belief, as will be shortly seen.
The father, hearing this pronouncement from Jesus immediately (Mark's favorite word) exclaims, "I do belive; help me overcome my unbelief!" (v. 24). This statement seems somewhat contradictory, as the man affirms his belief but also admits that he doesn't believe as well as he should. I don't think this is really completely contradictory because I've experienced times in my life when I've believed but unbelief was still there. Perhaps you know of what I'm talking about, that gnawing, pesky feeling that tells you everything's a bunch of hogwash? I think this man is recognizing that feeling, qualifying his exclamation of belief with a short entreaty to help him to overcome his unbelief.
Regardless of what this man's personal faith situation was at the time, what I find signficant for interpreting the entire story is that the man asks for something. He asks for help overcoming his unbelief. He brings a petition before Jesus, a request. What do all these things seem to relate to? Prayer. The man is praying to Jesus to help him overcome his unbelief. And Jesus answers this prayer, making the man's faith sight, but perhaps in a mysterious way he also strengthens the man's faith before the healing. I suggest this because Jesus just got through saying that anything is possible for him who believes. The man must have believed; that's what all this seems to imply. But he asks for help overcoming his unbelief, acknowledging the presence of his unbelief. If the boy was healed, it must have been through faith, and if the father had faith, it must have been granted to him after he prayed.
So when Jesus tells his disciples that this kind only comes out with prayer, he isn't talking about himself praying. He's referring to the father praying for help overcoming his unbelief. All this suggests that the disciples have some unbelief, but they do not pray for it to be overcome like the father did. They are limited then by this unbelief. If we apply this to ourselves (since Jesus said that this kind can only come out with prayer in a broad sense, speaking to the entire category of demonic creatures, implying that it is a general principle), it seems that the only way to truly overcome unbelief is to pray for it to be beaten. This may seem crazy but only by praying to God for him to overcome our unbelief, we still do not believe in the truest sense of the word. How can you pray if you don't believe in God, though? Maybe it's more like what the father experienced. We believe enough to recognize that we don't believe enough, and then we can pray for more belief.
Therefore, I pray that God will take away the unbelief that is hiding out in my life, limiting my effectiveness for his good work that I am purposed to do. I pray also for any unbelief which may be in your life, that God will overcome it and fill you with such a faith that you can do anything for his kingdom. May we together have the kind of faith that Jesus said could move mountains; and may the mountains be moved.
In Christ's name,
Amen
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Confessions of a Religioholic
If you're reading this for the intriguing title, that's good. That's what titles are for :)
So I definitely have been convicted lately of my way of doing things, religiously speaking. I am guilty of what Shane Claiborne calls "spiritual bulimia," especially through my adolescence. What this concept implies is one totally immersing oneself in the trappings of spirituality. In Christian circles, this has generally, including with me, taken two major forms. The first is an emphasis on Christian "stuff"--Christian music, Christian books, Christian everything. While I don't deny that these kinds of things can be helpful in avoiding the terribly destructive areas of secular life, I think there is definitely a fine line between acceptable use of these resources and an excessive reliance on them. Too much of this Christian "stuff" promotes a sense of separateness from other people. While holy living and sanctification are important--no arguments there--isn't it counterproductive to reaching people with the message of Christ to disassociate ourselves with everything they hold to be valuable? While I recognize that there must be a balance maintained here--meaning I don't think these things are inherently "bad"--I also recognize that in my particular situation I was on the extreme "Christan-stuff" side. I lived in another world from my non-Christian friends, and in fact, I even focused on making Christian friends and minimizing my relationships with non-Christians. Obviously, this attitude was wrong on multiple levels, and I confess that it was my modus operendi for far too long.
The second way I've kind of been a "religioholic" is in my understanding of the sharp distinction between secular knowledge and religious knowledge. I have even been guilty of claiming that when one is in politics one must take on the views of politics, putting religion to the side, and vice-versa when one is in a religious situation. What this view really entails is an artificial construction of views that are convenient for religion but problematic for other areas of life. An interesting example is the classic science/religion controversy. I have been guilty of standing against everything that scientists have to say, especially about evolution, just based on my religious understandings. Refusing to entertain the idea that perhaps both forms of truth work, I have subscribed to a narrow perspective--one which I am now trying to forcibly shake. Understanding the true nature of the Bible has helped in this regard, making my former nearly literal (though, of course, complete literal interpretation is impossible) interpretations seem somewhat shallow. This course of thought has opened up so many more possibilities for faith.
It might be argued that these kinds of shakings in my faith are, in fact, signs of its weakening; but I disagree. Instead of not trusting myself to live my life in the world and isolating myself in a religioholic world, I live this life with a sense of deep trust in God. It's too safe to live exclusively among Christians, listen to only Christian music, etc.; and God never claimed that "being safe" is what he wanted for us. I think it takes a stronger faith to face the influences of the world and still remain true to God, to still love like Christ told us to despite the pain and struggle of life. It takes even more faith to recognize the good, that part of something that remains from God's first creation, in the world. Genesis tells us that what God created was "good," and although sin has corrupted the earth, it is still helpful to remember that the forbidden fruit was not "the tree of the knowledge of evil" but "the tree of the knowledge of good and evil." What this implies is that both good and evil exist in the world. I know this sounds paradoxical, but I believe that God is too powerful for something like sin to completely erase the good in anything he created. Somewhere in creation, there is good. It takes a lot of faith to find it, and I hope that that's what I'm growing into out of my place of "relgioholicism."
So I definitely have been convicted lately of my way of doing things, religiously speaking. I am guilty of what Shane Claiborne calls "spiritual bulimia," especially through my adolescence. What this concept implies is one totally immersing oneself in the trappings of spirituality. In Christian circles, this has generally, including with me, taken two major forms. The first is an emphasis on Christian "stuff"--Christian music, Christian books, Christian everything. While I don't deny that these kinds of things can be helpful in avoiding the terribly destructive areas of secular life, I think there is definitely a fine line between acceptable use of these resources and an excessive reliance on them. Too much of this Christian "stuff" promotes a sense of separateness from other people. While holy living and sanctification are important--no arguments there--isn't it counterproductive to reaching people with the message of Christ to disassociate ourselves with everything they hold to be valuable? While I recognize that there must be a balance maintained here--meaning I don't think these things are inherently "bad"--I also recognize that in my particular situation I was on the extreme "Christan-stuff" side. I lived in another world from my non-Christian friends, and in fact, I even focused on making Christian friends and minimizing my relationships with non-Christians. Obviously, this attitude was wrong on multiple levels, and I confess that it was my modus operendi for far too long.
The second way I've kind of been a "religioholic" is in my understanding of the sharp distinction between secular knowledge and religious knowledge. I have even been guilty of claiming that when one is in politics one must take on the views of politics, putting religion to the side, and vice-versa when one is in a religious situation. What this view really entails is an artificial construction of views that are convenient for religion but problematic for other areas of life. An interesting example is the classic science/religion controversy. I have been guilty of standing against everything that scientists have to say, especially about evolution, just based on my religious understandings. Refusing to entertain the idea that perhaps both forms of truth work, I have subscribed to a narrow perspective--one which I am now trying to forcibly shake. Understanding the true nature of the Bible has helped in this regard, making my former nearly literal (though, of course, complete literal interpretation is impossible) interpretations seem somewhat shallow. This course of thought has opened up so many more possibilities for faith.
It might be argued that these kinds of shakings in my faith are, in fact, signs of its weakening; but I disagree. Instead of not trusting myself to live my life in the world and isolating myself in a religioholic world, I live this life with a sense of deep trust in God. It's too safe to live exclusively among Christians, listen to only Christian music, etc.; and God never claimed that "being safe" is what he wanted for us. I think it takes a stronger faith to face the influences of the world and still remain true to God, to still love like Christ told us to despite the pain and struggle of life. It takes even more faith to recognize the good, that part of something that remains from God's first creation, in the world. Genesis tells us that what God created was "good," and although sin has corrupted the earth, it is still helpful to remember that the forbidden fruit was not "the tree of the knowledge of evil" but "the tree of the knowledge of good and evil." What this implies is that both good and evil exist in the world. I know this sounds paradoxical, but I believe that God is too powerful for something like sin to completely erase the good in anything he created. Somewhere in creation, there is good. It takes a lot of faith to find it, and I hope that that's what I'm growing into out of my place of "relgioholicism."
Saturday, May 2, 2009
The Sophomore Perspective
On coming to college my freshman year, I experienced a season when everything was new and vibrant. I challenged myself to experience new things, to learn new things, and to expand my circle of friends wider than it had ever been. I found in Anderson the community I had often longed for, and I thrived. I learned to dance--something I never did in high school, ever. I also got involved with other clubs and ministries, becoming a truly multi-faceted person.
Returning this year, however, things had changed. I was no longer the same man I was the previous year. My perspectives changed--everything from politics to morals to musical tastes. I was, in a sense, upheaved from the way I had always thought about the world, replacing my modernist perspective with a form of postmodernism (not the extremely pessimistic variation, so don't think that; the point is that I changed my mind about the way existence is structured). All of these changes contributed to the principle feeling of this year, that is confusion. I was confused about everything in life and somewhat directionless. I questioned everything and tried to construct informed but flexible positions on the major questions of life, especially in regards to theology and ethics. I opened my mind and had it changed--or perhaps I merely finally took an account of what I thought instead of what I had been taught to think, I cannot say. I feel as if the conclusions, or working hypotheses, I came to reflected my own form of thinking, but I can't really be 100% certain. Needless to say, I have a different outlook coming out the other side.
I also was isolated this year. Last year I was with my friends nearly every weekend, hanging out and goofing off into the wee hours of the morning without a care in the world. That changed this year.
Coming off of a summer where I felt devalued and expendable in my job, I extended the isolation I felt while geting through that experience into the school year, something I regret everyday. I spent three months away from my friends, and my life was just work, sleep, and eat for the most part. I loathed that existence, but it became a part of me and tarnished my social abilities when I returned to school.
I suppose you could say that this was all my fault, but I would challenge such a simplistic assumption. It cannot be denied that I did not reach out to people this year or make myself open to building friendships as much as I did last year, spending more time in my room than out with friends. But it is also true that the college community did not reach out to me. Its relation with me was always superficial and shallow--with the exception of my very close friends, a group I am daily thankful for. There was not much reaching out done to me by the school and its constituents. It allowed me to slip away and isolate myself. Nor did the church help me in this matter. It did not connect with me or compel my loyalty to its community. I must confess I have gone to church less this year than I have in the 13 years prior to this one, only really being faithful about it when I went home for the weekend--a rare occurrence. The church community simply did not create the environment that I needed to be revitalized.
Again, you could say that my situation is my fault, and you would be justified in saying so, for I tried to construct an identity from outside influences. One of the key characteristics of college life is its temporality--every six months or so I pack up all my stuff and move somewhere else. When I return, a quarter of my fellows are gone, replaced by new faces that I do not know. My flaw in this matter was my attempt to create something of permanence in a community characterized by temporariness. Because of the utter inadequacy of this environment to create a permanent self, I became disillusioned.
Disillusionment is a terrible thing; it robs the joy from everything one does, creates fits of depression, and saps one's energy. I grew adept, however, at hiding this situation from everyone in my environment--therefore, I must now apologize to those of you who have always believed me to be completely content and joyful in all circumstances. I put on this facade, and I know it was effective. I am sorry for my deceit. I must admit, I have almost had to drag myself through this year, and I am glad it is over. There were days when I just did not want to even bother getting up: "After all, what is the point of it all?" As the semester comes to a close, I am very, very tired.
And worst of all, I am alone. I have never been in a committed relationship, and frankly, I'm tired of playing the game. It isn't a game; it is life, and I think it deserves more than superficiality. I just feel that it should be the time when I am finally able to get into a relationship, perhaps create a human connection that will be more than just idle flattery and temporary flirtation. Perhaps that's what I need to believe again that things are arranged for the good in my life and not mere chance. I think I'm just growing up, and I'm tired of childish things. I want to find someone to share a truly meaningful relationship with, a woman who trusts God and loves as He does so that I am reminded always of the worth she and He place in me. Perhaps that's a heavy order, but a God who created the entirety of existence, including the infinitely complex structure of human consciousness, must be able to do such a thing.
At least that is what I choose to believe.
After all, I must still remain hopeful. I still, even though I have neglected my relationship with him, believe in a God who saves. Even though an army of shadows greater than any horde ever fielded by Isengard surrounds my life in an impenetrable siege, I know that the White Rider will come. When I lift my eyes unto the hills, I will see the one who sends my help, a God who is faithful and just, delivering me from my enemies and establishing my line forever. Believing this, I must be like Peter, who had the faith to step out of the boat onto the water with Jesus, or Aragorn and Theoden, who had the faith to ride out against their seemingly invicible foe at dawn.
"Let the horn of Helm Hammerhand sound in the deep, one last time."
But it wasn't the last time, was it? No, help came with the dawn. Jesus caught Peter when he began to sink. Rohan was saved.
But the most beautiful part of the story, to my mind, was that the ones who had been saved went forth and themselves saved others. The Riders of Rohan went to Minas Tirith to break the siege of Mordor. Perhaps that is God's purpose in saving us, so that we may also go and do likewise. Perhaps the situation I am in now will one day allow me to ride to the aid of another who faces the same darkness, telling of how my deliverer came to me when all hope seemed to fade. Perhaps I will one day cry, "Death!" and charge down the hill, affirming what I would be willing to face to help others (taking up my cross) because I was deliverered from the very same thing. Facing death once before, its fear is gone.
"For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain."--Phil 1:21
Maybe that's why that scene in the Lord of the Rings has always been the most touching to me; now it has particular relevance to my life, to what nobleness my life may become. But right now, I'm still back at Helms Deep, holed up with those who still stick with me in the darkest times. But look to the east! Dawn is breaking . . .
Returning this year, however, things had changed. I was no longer the same man I was the previous year. My perspectives changed--everything from politics to morals to musical tastes. I was, in a sense, upheaved from the way I had always thought about the world, replacing my modernist perspective with a form of postmodernism (not the extremely pessimistic variation, so don't think that; the point is that I changed my mind about the way existence is structured). All of these changes contributed to the principle feeling of this year, that is confusion. I was confused about everything in life and somewhat directionless. I questioned everything and tried to construct informed but flexible positions on the major questions of life, especially in regards to theology and ethics. I opened my mind and had it changed--or perhaps I merely finally took an account of what I thought instead of what I had been taught to think, I cannot say. I feel as if the conclusions, or working hypotheses, I came to reflected my own form of thinking, but I can't really be 100% certain. Needless to say, I have a different outlook coming out the other side.
I also was isolated this year. Last year I was with my friends nearly every weekend, hanging out and goofing off into the wee hours of the morning without a care in the world. That changed this year.
Coming off of a summer where I felt devalued and expendable in my job, I extended the isolation I felt while geting through that experience into the school year, something I regret everyday. I spent three months away from my friends, and my life was just work, sleep, and eat for the most part. I loathed that existence, but it became a part of me and tarnished my social abilities when I returned to school.
I suppose you could say that this was all my fault, but I would challenge such a simplistic assumption. It cannot be denied that I did not reach out to people this year or make myself open to building friendships as much as I did last year, spending more time in my room than out with friends. But it is also true that the college community did not reach out to me. Its relation with me was always superficial and shallow--with the exception of my very close friends, a group I am daily thankful for. There was not much reaching out done to me by the school and its constituents. It allowed me to slip away and isolate myself. Nor did the church help me in this matter. It did not connect with me or compel my loyalty to its community. I must confess I have gone to church less this year than I have in the 13 years prior to this one, only really being faithful about it when I went home for the weekend--a rare occurrence. The church community simply did not create the environment that I needed to be revitalized.
Again, you could say that my situation is my fault, and you would be justified in saying so, for I tried to construct an identity from outside influences. One of the key characteristics of college life is its temporality--every six months or so I pack up all my stuff and move somewhere else. When I return, a quarter of my fellows are gone, replaced by new faces that I do not know. My flaw in this matter was my attempt to create something of permanence in a community characterized by temporariness. Because of the utter inadequacy of this environment to create a permanent self, I became disillusioned.
Disillusionment is a terrible thing; it robs the joy from everything one does, creates fits of depression, and saps one's energy. I grew adept, however, at hiding this situation from everyone in my environment--therefore, I must now apologize to those of you who have always believed me to be completely content and joyful in all circumstances. I put on this facade, and I know it was effective. I am sorry for my deceit. I must admit, I have almost had to drag myself through this year, and I am glad it is over. There were days when I just did not want to even bother getting up: "After all, what is the point of it all?" As the semester comes to a close, I am very, very tired.
And worst of all, I am alone. I have never been in a committed relationship, and frankly, I'm tired of playing the game. It isn't a game; it is life, and I think it deserves more than superficiality. I just feel that it should be the time when I am finally able to get into a relationship, perhaps create a human connection that will be more than just idle flattery and temporary flirtation. Perhaps that's what I need to believe again that things are arranged for the good in my life and not mere chance. I think I'm just growing up, and I'm tired of childish things. I want to find someone to share a truly meaningful relationship with, a woman who trusts God and loves as He does so that I am reminded always of the worth she and He place in me. Perhaps that's a heavy order, but a God who created the entirety of existence, including the infinitely complex structure of human consciousness, must be able to do such a thing.
At least that is what I choose to believe.
After all, I must still remain hopeful. I still, even though I have neglected my relationship with him, believe in a God who saves. Even though an army of shadows greater than any horde ever fielded by Isengard surrounds my life in an impenetrable siege, I know that the White Rider will come. When I lift my eyes unto the hills, I will see the one who sends my help, a God who is faithful and just, delivering me from my enemies and establishing my line forever. Believing this, I must be like Peter, who had the faith to step out of the boat onto the water with Jesus, or Aragorn and Theoden, who had the faith to ride out against their seemingly invicible foe at dawn.
"Let the horn of Helm Hammerhand sound in the deep, one last time."
But it wasn't the last time, was it? No, help came with the dawn. Jesus caught Peter when he began to sink. Rohan was saved.
But the most beautiful part of the story, to my mind, was that the ones who had been saved went forth and themselves saved others. The Riders of Rohan went to Minas Tirith to break the siege of Mordor. Perhaps that is God's purpose in saving us, so that we may also go and do likewise. Perhaps the situation I am in now will one day allow me to ride to the aid of another who faces the same darkness, telling of how my deliverer came to me when all hope seemed to fade. Perhaps I will one day cry, "Death!" and charge down the hill, affirming what I would be willing to face to help others (taking up my cross) because I was deliverered from the very same thing. Facing death once before, its fear is gone.
"For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain."--Phil 1:21
Maybe that's why that scene in the Lord of the Rings has always been the most touching to me; now it has particular relevance to my life, to what nobleness my life may become. But right now, I'm still back at Helms Deep, holed up with those who still stick with me in the darkest times. But look to the east! Dawn is breaking . . .
Psalm 121
A song of ascents.
1 I lift up my eyes to the hills—
where does my help come from?
where does my help come from?
2 My help comes from the LORD,
the Maker of heaven and earth.
3 He will not let your foot slip—
he who watches over you will not slumber;
4 indeed, he who watches over Israel
will neither slumber nor sleep.
5 The LORD watches over you—
the LORD is your shade at your right hand;
6 the sun will not harm you by day,
nor the moon by night.
7 The LORD will keep you from all harm—
he will watch over your life;
8 the LORD will watch over your coming and going
both now and forevermore.
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