I love the idea of God totally accepting us, welcoming us into his arms, and even celebrating our return…no questions asked, just as the father in the passage of Luke 15:11-32 did with his youngest son, who squandered his money and lived with pigs. I love the idea of our Heavenly Father’s unconditional love, but do I really accept it, do I really understand it?
When I think of the story of the prodigal’s son, it brings to mind my young adulthood. I think of the car that my parents bought me when I was in high school. I felt so cool, driving around in my own black Subaru Loyal, the car that my parents trusted me enough to buy just for me!
Ok, so you are probably wondering. What does this has to do with God’s unconditional love? Well, I think I wrecked that car three times. It was stolen twice, and backed in to once. Each time something happened to that little car I had to go home and try to explain the story to my parents. I would recite what I was going to say before I was face to face with them. I was so embarrassed and ashamed to disappoint them again, but when I got home they would just put their arms around me and make sure that I was safe (however, there were some questions asked!). It was always hard for me to face them but each time I did I was reminded that they always accepted me back, no matter what mistake I had just made.
Our Father’s character is that of unconditional love, but what does that mean? I believe that when we are told not to do something, some people call it the “Law”, the Ten Commandments, or just the rules we are to live by, it is out of total love. Just like my parents told me, “Sami, don’t leave the keys in your car, it’s going to get stolen,” for my own benefit, our Heavenly Father only wants what is best for us. He does not put boundaries in our lives to send us straight to hell if we cross them. I am learning that He actually is trying to protect me from some potentially horrible consequences. Getting my head around this thought gives me a greater understanding of His unconditional love.
Luke 15:20 says, “So, he (the youngest son) got up and went to his father. But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him.” Our Father knows we are coming home before we arrive. Everytime I pull into the driveway after I get into yet another car crash He is waiting with open arms, full of love…it is a beautiful thing.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
KEVIN- Freedom
When I think of freedom loads of images and thoughts come into my mind. Some good, some not so good, especially when thinking about things I thought were freeing but actually brought guilt and condemnation.
It seems to me that there is great freedom shown by the shepherd in the story Karl talked about on Sunday from Luke 15:1-7. In this story, the shepherd gives his sheep real freedom; he really loves and cares for his sheep. As I wonder why, the bigger picture shows me that he hungers for his sheep. An ancient letter written to the small church in Rome by the Apostle Paul tells me that he wants them to have a freedom, free from any guilt or condemnation. I get the picture that the shepherd’s desire is for his sheep to grow and develop in their individual gifts, skills and attributes. Not in comparison to others but as individual loved beings. He even gives the sheep freedom to get lost, if they want to, knowing that he will intentionally and continually hunt for them.
In another ancient letter written to a small church in Ephesus I am reminded that this is because his desire is for the sheep to journey and grow into the fullness of being like Jesus Christ. That just blows me away, that the shepherd wants us to become like Jesus. Just LIKE JESUS. And to do it he will give the sheep the tools they need by giving the gift of his wisdom and spirit for counsel.
As we taste true freedom, we can pass it on to others. As God’s people, we can then help, assist, love and tell others who are hurting and weighted down by the guilt and condemnation of false freedom that there’s something better, that true freedom is staying close to The Shepherd.
In the stories the shepherd is God and the sheep are a representation of us human beings. When I link it to this ancient festival of Christmas it kind of reinforces the whole point. That Jesus came naked and weak into our history. That He then traveled part of this planet illustrating that with the nurturing boundaries of God in our lives and as part of a gracious, loving, guilt free Kingdom community we can journey into expanding personal freedom.
The funny part is that this freedom can sometimes be the hardest thing for me to take hold of because it’s given with no strings attached and is unconditional. I often think I’ve got to do something for it. In the ancient mystical letter written by John--someone who walked alongside Jesus--he says, ‘when Jesus sets us free we are truly free’. This is so true. It’s only with this kind of freedom that I can with growing confidence walk the uncertain adventure of life.
It seems to me that there is great freedom shown by the shepherd in the story Karl talked about on Sunday from Luke 15:1-7. In this story, the shepherd gives his sheep real freedom; he really loves and cares for his sheep. As I wonder why, the bigger picture shows me that he hungers for his sheep. An ancient letter written to the small church in Rome by the Apostle Paul tells me that he wants them to have a freedom, free from any guilt or condemnation. I get the picture that the shepherd’s desire is for his sheep to grow and develop in their individual gifts, skills and attributes. Not in comparison to others but as individual loved beings. He even gives the sheep freedom to get lost, if they want to, knowing that he will intentionally and continually hunt for them.
In another ancient letter written to a small church in Ephesus I am reminded that this is because his desire is for the sheep to journey and grow into the fullness of being like Jesus Christ. That just blows me away, that the shepherd wants us to become like Jesus. Just LIKE JESUS. And to do it he will give the sheep the tools they need by giving the gift of his wisdom and spirit for counsel.
As we taste true freedom, we can pass it on to others. As God’s people, we can then help, assist, love and tell others who are hurting and weighted down by the guilt and condemnation of false freedom that there’s something better, that true freedom is staying close to The Shepherd.
In the stories the shepherd is God and the sheep are a representation of us human beings. When I link it to this ancient festival of Christmas it kind of reinforces the whole point. That Jesus came naked and weak into our history. That He then traveled part of this planet illustrating that with the nurturing boundaries of God in our lives and as part of a gracious, loving, guilt free Kingdom community we can journey into expanding personal freedom.
The funny part is that this freedom can sometimes be the hardest thing for me to take hold of because it’s given with no strings attached and is unconditional. I often think I’ve got to do something for it. In the ancient mystical letter written by John--someone who walked alongside Jesus--he says, ‘when Jesus sets us free we are truly free’. This is so true. It’s only with this kind of freedom that I can with growing confidence walk the uncertain adventure of life.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
KATHY - Equality
Christmas. Everyone responds to this time of year differently. For some, it’s a great season filled with food and family and happy memory-making. For others, it’s a time of dread. Money’s tight or nonexistent. The reminder of losses—of loved ones, jobs, relationships, faith-- sets in. In the season where we’re supposed to feel joyful we sometimes feel loneliness, anxiety and fear instead. The “reason for the season” gets lost in the reality of life and we just try to bear down and make it to the new year where our resolutions await and we might get a fresh start.
Christmas is a time, honestly, where things don’t feel too equal. Those who have money and jobs get presents. Those who don’t, can’t. Those who have intact families—or some semblance of one—get to be together. Those who have broken families, no family, exes who make things hard, or weird inlaws get to manage through that mess instead and often end up alone or angry. Some people have tried all year to get a job, keep a job, enjoy a job, to no avail while others are soaring up the corporate ladder getting one raise after another. Others are worried about gaining some extra pounds over the holidays while others are fighting for their lives battling cancer or trying to stop using drugs. Some people are happily married while others are still reeling from a painful divorce. Sometimes it just doesn’t seem fair.
In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s not fair. I don’t know where I got this crazy idea that life was going to be fair. And even though I know life isn’t, I still desperately want it to be. And fairness in my little pea brain usually means equal. Equal means we all get the same—the same blessing, the same help, the same hope, the same attention, the same _______. You fill in the blank. But of course I only want equality when it comes to the good things—money, possessions, jobs, influence, God’s “blessings.” I can do without equality the other direction…I mean who wants health issues or job losses or bankruptcy or more pain? I am learning, the hard way, that life isn’t fair. And life isn’t equal, either. Some of us have harder roads, others have easier. Some have deeper pain and loss, others just haven’t experienced some of the more life-defining struggles. One isn’t right and the other’s wrong. One’s not better, more important or more valuable. It’s just different. And to somehow try to explain why in the world God has made it so complicated is utterly impossible.
But this Christmas here’s what I keep clinging to—His ways are higher than mine and what’s unfair here on earth somehow gets made right in heaven. Jesus loves me as much as he loves the next person. And that’s not dependent on anything I do or don’t do or they do or don’t do. He doesn’t place greater value on any of us because of our looks or power or money or Bible knowledge or status or lack thereof. That’s a man-made thing. But God says to all of us that we are His treasured possessions and that when we get lost, He’ll go searching for us.
On Sunday we looked at the Story of the Lost Coin in Luke 15. It really was a simple gift from Jesus, a reminder that we are equally valuable in His eyes. Worth searching for. Fighting for. Celebrating for. Do you believe that? Most days, if I’m honest, the answer is “yes, if….”. I feel valuable when I’m doing the right things and I am staying “on top” of my life (doesn’t happen too often). When I’m lost--struggling to gain back some of my past fervor for God, controlling my life instead of trusting God, feeling sad and alone or full of shame for some stupid mistake I made--I’m not feeling too valuable.
But Jesus reminds me in this passage that my lostness has nothing to do with His value for me. In fact, it is just the opposite. He’ll turn the tables to find me not because of anything I can do, prove, muster, or mess up. It has nothing to do with my circumstances, how hard or easy my life is going at the moment. I don’t always understand His “finding”. Sometimes I’m like “hey, God, are you sure you are looking hard enough?” but then, when I take a closer look, I notice that usually it’s me that misses His looking. I am distracted by all of the things that are wrong and easily miss the things that are right—the small things to be thankful for, the simple and subtle ways God is saying "See, here I am. I've been looking for you."
Christmas is a time, honestly, where things don’t feel too equal. Those who have money and jobs get presents. Those who don’t, can’t. Those who have intact families—or some semblance of one—get to be together. Those who have broken families, no family, exes who make things hard, or weird inlaws get to manage through that mess instead and often end up alone or angry. Some people have tried all year to get a job, keep a job, enjoy a job, to no avail while others are soaring up the corporate ladder getting one raise after another. Others are worried about gaining some extra pounds over the holidays while others are fighting for their lives battling cancer or trying to stop using drugs. Some people are happily married while others are still reeling from a painful divorce. Sometimes it just doesn’t seem fair.
In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s not fair. I don’t know where I got this crazy idea that life was going to be fair. And even though I know life isn’t, I still desperately want it to be. And fairness in my little pea brain usually means equal. Equal means we all get the same—the same blessing, the same help, the same hope, the same attention, the same _______. You fill in the blank. But of course I only want equality when it comes to the good things—money, possessions, jobs, influence, God’s “blessings.” I can do without equality the other direction…I mean who wants health issues or job losses or bankruptcy or more pain? I am learning, the hard way, that life isn’t fair. And life isn’t equal, either. Some of us have harder roads, others have easier. Some have deeper pain and loss, others just haven’t experienced some of the more life-defining struggles. One isn’t right and the other’s wrong. One’s not better, more important or more valuable. It’s just different. And to somehow try to explain why in the world God has made it so complicated is utterly impossible.
But this Christmas here’s what I keep clinging to—His ways are higher than mine and what’s unfair here on earth somehow gets made right in heaven. Jesus loves me as much as he loves the next person. And that’s not dependent on anything I do or don’t do or they do or don’t do. He doesn’t place greater value on any of us because of our looks or power or money or Bible knowledge or status or lack thereof. That’s a man-made thing. But God says to all of us that we are His treasured possessions and that when we get lost, He’ll go searching for us.
On Sunday we looked at the Story of the Lost Coin in Luke 15. It really was a simple gift from Jesus, a reminder that we are equally valuable in His eyes. Worth searching for. Fighting for. Celebrating for. Do you believe that? Most days, if I’m honest, the answer is “yes, if….”. I feel valuable when I’m doing the right things and I am staying “on top” of my life (doesn’t happen too often). When I’m lost--struggling to gain back some of my past fervor for God, controlling my life instead of trusting God, feeling sad and alone or full of shame for some stupid mistake I made--I’m not feeling too valuable.
But Jesus reminds me in this passage that my lostness has nothing to do with His value for me. In fact, it is just the opposite. He’ll turn the tables to find me not because of anything I can do, prove, muster, or mess up. It has nothing to do with my circumstances, how hard or easy my life is going at the moment. I don’t always understand His “finding”. Sometimes I’m like “hey, God, are you sure you are looking hard enough?” but then, when I take a closer look, I notice that usually it’s me that misses His looking. I am distracted by all of the things that are wrong and easily miss the things that are right—the small things to be thankful for, the simple and subtle ways God is saying "See, here I am. I've been looking for you."
Monday, November 06, 2006
KATHY - Kind Beats Right
The other day I was driving down the road in the lovely suburbs of Arvada and I felt like someone kicked me in the stomach. An old van pulled into the lane in front of me. It took a minute for my eyes to focus on how weird it looked. Then I got a little closer and realized that huge posters of aborted fetuses were plastered on all sides of the van. They were graphic, horrific, and personally painful. Underneath the photographs were mean and disparaging words about baby killers and God’s wrath. Honestly, the ugliness, the meanness was so shocking that I had to abruptly get off my telephone call and catch my breath. It took me a few minutes to regroup, awestruck by the insensitivity of the images. I can understand the point trying to be made, but why do it this way? In that moment, I was truly embarrassed that I would be associated with this kind of “Christian”.
Lately I have been feeling that quite a bit. In recent conversations, I have been hearing a recurring theme--mistreatment by Christians. Pain caused by insensitive Christians and mean churches. Many have witnessed a huge disparity between what is said and what is done. We know that Jesus taught us to love our enemies, but Christianity has become known in this country as the least likely help to help those with whom they disagree. Gays, liberals, evolutionists, and others perceived to have a world view other than Christian have often felt the wrath, not the benevolence, of those called Christian. Rejected instead of embraced, shamed instead of loved, ignored instead of helped is the pattern. In this past year I have become one of those people—those “wounded by the church.” Take it from me, to challenge the established, large institutional church to value kindness over growth is a sure way to unemployment. The pain is deeper than I ever could have imagined but I can tell you that thanks to the kindness of my dear and faithful friends at the Refuge and other kind Christians these wounds are healing.
This past week I was at a conference in Seattle. It was a wild gathering of radicals who believe in a different way of doing church—a simpler way more focused on what Jesus cared about--the poor, the oppressed, the marginalized. But instead of slick programming, bells, whistles & buildings the higher value is kindness. I have believed the things that they were talking about for a long time but because I was so caught up in the megachurch and all its trappings I didn’t know this crazy underground movement of simply kind Christ followers existed. I felt privileged to sit next to such dedicated people....kind, gentle leaders who didn’t care about big salaries and filling cavernous auditoriums but truly cared about tangibly loving the abused, the beaten, the broken.
In the spirit of becoming more and more like Jesus in this broken messed up world, one of the speakers shared this profound thought: Being kind is more important than being right. These words stung. How often has being right been my primary objective? I have stood on tables, shook my fists, hurt other people, all in the spirit of “being right.” And hey, let’s face it, sometimes I have had a pretty darn good point and the right to feel right. But where did it get me, really? Nowhere except maybe closer to anger, resentment, isolation, unforgiveness. I have found the need to be right to be a dead-end, a lose-lose.
I want to learn to be more kind. I want to extend to my enemies, and those who don’t agree with me, forgiveness and compassion instead of hate and anger. I want to live my life well instead of worrying about how others are living theirs. I want to continually stay in touch with Christ’s radical kindness, mercy and compassion toward me (even when I don’t really understand it) and offer it freely to others. And I guess I keep wondering—why is this so hard to do? Why is bitterness, self-righteousness so much easier for me? I am pretty sure it’s just because I am a human being and inclined toward a hard, self-protective heart instead of a soft and vulnerable one. And bottom line is that extending kindness makes me vulnerable, and I hate to be vulnerable. It’s so scary, risky. But I’ve been imagining how different my world might be if I was a little bit more kind and a little less worried about being right. What if we all were a little kinder to ourselves, kinder to others?
My friend K-Lee has a wonderful tag line on her email…”Be kinder than necessary. Everyone is fighting some kind of battle.” God, help me, help our little community of rag-tags at The Refuge be known for our kindness.
Lately I have been feeling that quite a bit. In recent conversations, I have been hearing a recurring theme--mistreatment by Christians. Pain caused by insensitive Christians and mean churches. Many have witnessed a huge disparity between what is said and what is done. We know that Jesus taught us to love our enemies, but Christianity has become known in this country as the least likely help to help those with whom they disagree. Gays, liberals, evolutionists, and others perceived to have a world view other than Christian have often felt the wrath, not the benevolence, of those called Christian. Rejected instead of embraced, shamed instead of loved, ignored instead of helped is the pattern. In this past year I have become one of those people—those “wounded by the church.” Take it from me, to challenge the established, large institutional church to value kindness over growth is a sure way to unemployment. The pain is deeper than I ever could have imagined but I can tell you that thanks to the kindness of my dear and faithful friends at the Refuge and other kind Christians these wounds are healing.
This past week I was at a conference in Seattle. It was a wild gathering of radicals who believe in a different way of doing church—a simpler way more focused on what Jesus cared about--the poor, the oppressed, the marginalized. But instead of slick programming, bells, whistles & buildings the higher value is kindness. I have believed the things that they were talking about for a long time but because I was so caught up in the megachurch and all its trappings I didn’t know this crazy underground movement of simply kind Christ followers existed. I felt privileged to sit next to such dedicated people....kind, gentle leaders who didn’t care about big salaries and filling cavernous auditoriums but truly cared about tangibly loving the abused, the beaten, the broken.
In the spirit of becoming more and more like Jesus in this broken messed up world, one of the speakers shared this profound thought: Being kind is more important than being right. These words stung. How often has being right been my primary objective? I have stood on tables, shook my fists, hurt other people, all in the spirit of “being right.” And hey, let’s face it, sometimes I have had a pretty darn good point and the right to feel right. But where did it get me, really? Nowhere except maybe closer to anger, resentment, isolation, unforgiveness. I have found the need to be right to be a dead-end, a lose-lose.
I want to learn to be more kind. I want to extend to my enemies, and those who don’t agree with me, forgiveness and compassion instead of hate and anger. I want to live my life well instead of worrying about how others are living theirs. I want to continually stay in touch with Christ’s radical kindness, mercy and compassion toward me (even when I don’t really understand it) and offer it freely to others. And I guess I keep wondering—why is this so hard to do? Why is bitterness, self-righteousness so much easier for me? I am pretty sure it’s just because I am a human being and inclined toward a hard, self-protective heart instead of a soft and vulnerable one. And bottom line is that extending kindness makes me vulnerable, and I hate to be vulnerable. It’s so scary, risky. But I’ve been imagining how different my world might be if I was a little bit more kind and a little less worried about being right. What if we all were a little kinder to ourselves, kinder to others?
My friend K-Lee has a wonderful tag line on her email…”Be kinder than necessary. Everyone is fighting some kind of battle.” God, help me, help our little community of rag-tags at The Refuge be known for our kindness.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
KARL - The Story...
Tony Barker was the smartest sixth grader in the country and happened to be in my class at school. I remember when he brought War and Peace to class for his “free reading” selection. No teacher was qualified to teach him math, so he taught the class. At the age of twelve he aspired to become a neurosurgeon. He became one of the youngest tenured professors at the University of Colorado. But what I most vividly remember, the memory that is first in line for recall is…
In sixth grade Tony Barker wet his pants.
This past Sunday at The Refuge I shared a significant flaw in my character, a specific horrible moment that could have ruined multiple lives. It is probably not my worst moment, but it is certainly up there as something I would much rather forget. Now that I have said it out loud, publicly, it will now be a part of the mosaic that influences how I am known and remembered. Yes, how I am choosing to live now matters, but nothing will erase the memory of my bad choices. Hard to believe? What comes to mind with this name?
Monica Lewinski
A single act, whether stupid, evil, or silly influences our memory so dramatically it can overshadow all our other accomplishments. This is why it is always vital to remember the ellipsis.
The ellipsis (aka dot.dot.dot….) is the literary equivalent of Grace. We live in a world of periods. End of story. That is it, you are what you were, I have all the information I need. It is a life without grace. And I am fairly used to living that way. I forget that our lives are constantly being written, yes significant chapters have occurred and some of those chapters include some pretty ugly mistakes, but maybe the climax is yet to come?
The power of the gospel is that my story is constantly changing. It is my job to believe each person I meet, especially those who are part of the rag-tag community we call The Refuge, are not yet who they one day will be. Even more difficult is to believe it about me. I’m learning to believe my life is more like an ellipsis…the story isn’t finished. I must live this by not hiding, but trusting you will see me slowly become more of who I was made to be. I cannot end my loneliness if I am hiding in the shadows of someone’s distorted admiration.
I am …
Who knows where or how it will end?
In sixth grade Tony Barker wet his pants.
This past Sunday at The Refuge I shared a significant flaw in my character, a specific horrible moment that could have ruined multiple lives. It is probably not my worst moment, but it is certainly up there as something I would much rather forget. Now that I have said it out loud, publicly, it will now be a part of the mosaic that influences how I am known and remembered. Yes, how I am choosing to live now matters, but nothing will erase the memory of my bad choices. Hard to believe? What comes to mind with this name?
Monica Lewinski
A single act, whether stupid, evil, or silly influences our memory so dramatically it can overshadow all our other accomplishments. This is why it is always vital to remember the ellipsis.
The ellipsis (aka dot.dot.dot….) is the literary equivalent of Grace. We live in a world of periods. End of story. That is it, you are what you were, I have all the information I need. It is a life without grace. And I am fairly used to living that way. I forget that our lives are constantly being written, yes significant chapters have occurred and some of those chapters include some pretty ugly mistakes, but maybe the climax is yet to come?
The power of the gospel is that my story is constantly changing. It is my job to believe each person I meet, especially those who are part of the rag-tag community we call The Refuge, are not yet who they one day will be. Even more difficult is to believe it about me. I’m learning to believe my life is more like an ellipsis…the story isn’t finished. I must live this by not hiding, but trusting you will see me slowly become more of who I was made to be. I cannot end my loneliness if I am hiding in the shadows of someone’s distorted admiration.
I am …
Who knows where or how it will end?
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
PAUL - Masks
About this time last year I was preparing a message on fear because I was the youth pastor of a church in Parker and we were going to have a special youth-led Halloween service… and we wonder why I’m not a youth pastor anymore. I promise we didn’t have enough goats for the ritual sacrifice (just kidding). Actually Halloween has an interesting past and relationship to the history of the church. Halloween began as a celebration to the Celtic new year Samhain, which is the end of the harvest and a time associated with death. Druids and pagans believed that wearing masks would prevent the evil spirits of the dead from entering you, because that way they couldn’t tell if you were human or not. So in a very odd way masks had a sort of spiritual power. Time passed and Rome conquered much of the Celtic lands and by the 800’s Pope Bonifice IV declared November 1st “All Saint’s Day”, a time to honor saints and martyrs. It is widely believed today that the pope was attempting to replace the Celtic festival of the dead with a related but church-sanctioned holiday. The night before it, became “All-Hallows Eve” which later shortened to “Halloween” and was celebrated by bonfires, costumes and most of all …masks.
Of course masks were around long before Halloween. Egyptians used masks in worship ceremonies and sacrifices. In ancient Greece, the first actors wore different masks to represent different people or emotions. The name Hypo-crities was developed to described these actors. It means “one who speaks from behind a mask.” The idea behind this was that a person’s true nature was hidden so you could not discern their real feelings… it was really hard to get the truth from a person in a mask. This is where we get our English word “hypocrite”. Hmmmm.
We all know that you don’t have to be an actor to wear a mask. We all wear masks…we’ve been wearing them so long sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference between the mask and our own face. The truth be told, masks are rather comfortable and they make other people comfortable, too. Without our masks we are exposed, vulnerable, un-guarded, open to attack…and that’s frightening, terrifying.
Seeing someone else without their mask can be pretty disturbing, too. Because people without masks can appear horribly disfigured, ugly… you can see their scars… or open wounds… inside you wished they never shared that part of themselves. You know what I mean, it’s happened at The Refuge hasn’t it? One of those “whoa” moments when you think to yourself, “I just have to act like that was perfectly normal” and then make sure not to make eye contact because you have this panicky “is-my mask-still-on?” feeling.
The truth about masks is that they have always had a sort of spiritual power. The reason we put them on in the first place is out of fear, and fear has always been a matter of faith. Life without masks is scary, terrifying really. I like it better when mine is on. It feels much more protected, safe. But the truth is with my mask I always stay afraid. Afraid to be known. 1 John 4:18 tells us that God is love and that perfect love casts out all fear of condemnation. Someone once told me that fear was “faith in the wrong thing”. When I put on my mask I am afraid and my faith is in the wrong thing—it is in what people think of me, what I think of myself, the false things I believe God thinks about me, too. The perfect love of Jesus that casts out all fear of condemnation is nowhere to be found.
I believe Jesus is extending an invitation to all of us to take off our masks even when everything thing in us screams “Condemnation!” “Exposure!” “Judgement!” Lately I keep hearing Him tell me, “Paul, masks are a waste of time. Take it off. Let me, let others, see your real face.”
Of course masks were around long before Halloween. Egyptians used masks in worship ceremonies and sacrifices. In ancient Greece, the first actors wore different masks to represent different people or emotions. The name Hypo-crities was developed to described these actors. It means “one who speaks from behind a mask.” The idea behind this was that a person’s true nature was hidden so you could not discern their real feelings… it was really hard to get the truth from a person in a mask. This is where we get our English word “hypocrite”. Hmmmm.
We all know that you don’t have to be an actor to wear a mask. We all wear masks…we’ve been wearing them so long sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference between the mask and our own face. The truth be told, masks are rather comfortable and they make other people comfortable, too. Without our masks we are exposed, vulnerable, un-guarded, open to attack…and that’s frightening, terrifying.
Seeing someone else without their mask can be pretty disturbing, too. Because people without masks can appear horribly disfigured, ugly… you can see their scars… or open wounds… inside you wished they never shared that part of themselves. You know what I mean, it’s happened at The Refuge hasn’t it? One of those “whoa” moments when you think to yourself, “I just have to act like that was perfectly normal” and then make sure not to make eye contact because you have this panicky “is-my mask-still-on?” feeling.
The truth about masks is that they have always had a sort of spiritual power. The reason we put them on in the first place is out of fear, and fear has always been a matter of faith. Life without masks is scary, terrifying really. I like it better when mine is on. It feels much more protected, safe. But the truth is with my mask I always stay afraid. Afraid to be known. 1 John 4:18 tells us that God is love and that perfect love casts out all fear of condemnation. Someone once told me that fear was “faith in the wrong thing”. When I put on my mask I am afraid and my faith is in the wrong thing—it is in what people think of me, what I think of myself, the false things I believe God thinks about me, too. The perfect love of Jesus that casts out all fear of condemnation is nowhere to be found.
I believe Jesus is extending an invitation to all of us to take off our masks even when everything thing in us screams “Condemnation!” “Exposure!” “Judgement!” Lately I keep hearing Him tell me, “Paul, masks are a waste of time. Take it off. Let me, let others, see your real face.”
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
KATHY - Is there a Doctor in the Church?
I am a broken person. I do things I don’t want to do, I struggle with things I think I should be “over” by now, I don’t love the people closest to me the way I long to, I am selfish. I had better be careful or I will self-destruct. I want to be a better lover of God & people. I want to live out what it means to be a child of God.
Is there a Doctor in the church?
Jesus made very clear that I am the kind of person he wants to help. He said, “The healthy don’t need a doctor, the sick do, and I came for the sick.” He also tells me that I should not try to hide my sickness, which all of us have a tendency to do, especially in “the church.” He tells the Pharisees, the religious leaders of his time, “you worry so much about the outside, why not worry about the inside?” You see, we have always had a tendency toward hiding, toward pretending we’re well when we’re really not. I used to be a great pretender, the master. It’s why I need people in my life who won’t let me, who know that whenever I pretend, I never, ever feel better. In fact, I just feel worse.
If Jesus came for the sick, that means he came for all of us who were willing to say “hey, I’m not doing too well on my own, I think I need some help.” And it takes a lot of courage to say this out loud: “I NEED HELP. I need a doctor.”
There are lots of calls to the Doctor at The Refuge, that’s for sure (hey, maybe that’s why I use so many cell phone minutes???) Some people get scared by us because we are so honest, so raw at The Refuge. They say: “You’re not supposed to do that in church, are you?” I can see where they are coming from because honesty, authenticity, crying out for help is scary. It scares me, too, because it’s so unpredictable, unsettling, challenging. But just because something scares me doesn’t mean I am supposed to avoid it. The world is looking at the church, wondering what it has to offer them. The current American church has earned the reputation of being a place for the put together, the neat, the tidy, THE EXACT KIND OF PEOPLE that Jesus was railing against during his ministry in the gospels. He was pretty clear that he was about the sick, the humble, the needy, the broken, the lost, the ones who knew that without him, life wasn’t going too well.
And sick, broken, lost doesn’t necessarily equal homeless, addicted, divorced, unbelieving. It has absolutely nothing to do with what’s on the outside. It has everything to do with what’s going on inside our heart. And the truth of the matter is, whether we like to believe it or not, we are all pretty messy inside. We all need a Doctor.
Our only hope, in my opinion, is that we get to the Doctor and hang out in his hospital, the real church. I can’t begin to tell you how much healing has happened in my life hanging out in the ER with real, courageous people who aren’t afraid to say “I need a doctor.” It has made me feel so less alone, less afraid of all of the “surgery” that I keep having to have. I used to avoid going to the Doctor like the plague, tried to do it on my own, keep it all together and not need God too much even though I was a “good Christian.” Yeah, it didn’t go so well.
We have a Great Physician, the Healer, the Restorer and I am certain he can bring life out of the wreckage for all of us. And I believe Jesus calls the church, is calling The Refuge, to be a really cool hospital where He can do what He does best…heal, restore, bring hope, new life.
Is there a Doctor in the church?
Jesus made very clear that I am the kind of person he wants to help. He said, “The healthy don’t need a doctor, the sick do, and I came for the sick.” He also tells me that I should not try to hide my sickness, which all of us have a tendency to do, especially in “the church.” He tells the Pharisees, the religious leaders of his time, “you worry so much about the outside, why not worry about the inside?” You see, we have always had a tendency toward hiding, toward pretending we’re well when we’re really not. I used to be a great pretender, the master. It’s why I need people in my life who won’t let me, who know that whenever I pretend, I never, ever feel better. In fact, I just feel worse.
If Jesus came for the sick, that means he came for all of us who were willing to say “hey, I’m not doing too well on my own, I think I need some help.” And it takes a lot of courage to say this out loud: “I NEED HELP. I need a doctor.”
There are lots of calls to the Doctor at The Refuge, that’s for sure (hey, maybe that’s why I use so many cell phone minutes???) Some people get scared by us because we are so honest, so raw at The Refuge. They say: “You’re not supposed to do that in church, are you?” I can see where they are coming from because honesty, authenticity, crying out for help is scary. It scares me, too, because it’s so unpredictable, unsettling, challenging. But just because something scares me doesn’t mean I am supposed to avoid it. The world is looking at the church, wondering what it has to offer them. The current American church has earned the reputation of being a place for the put together, the neat, the tidy, THE EXACT KIND OF PEOPLE that Jesus was railing against during his ministry in the gospels. He was pretty clear that he was about the sick, the humble, the needy, the broken, the lost, the ones who knew that without him, life wasn’t going too well.
And sick, broken, lost doesn’t necessarily equal homeless, addicted, divorced, unbelieving. It has absolutely nothing to do with what’s on the outside. It has everything to do with what’s going on inside our heart. And the truth of the matter is, whether we like to believe it or not, we are all pretty messy inside. We all need a Doctor.
Our only hope, in my opinion, is that we get to the Doctor and hang out in his hospital, the real church. I can’t begin to tell you how much healing has happened in my life hanging out in the ER with real, courageous people who aren’t afraid to say “I need a doctor.” It has made me feel so less alone, less afraid of all of the “surgery” that I keep having to have. I used to avoid going to the Doctor like the plague, tried to do it on my own, keep it all together and not need God too much even though I was a “good Christian.” Yeah, it didn’t go so well.
We have a Great Physician, the Healer, the Restorer and I am certain he can bring life out of the wreckage for all of us. And I believe Jesus calls the church, is calling The Refuge, to be a really cool hospital where He can do what He does best…heal, restore, bring hope, new life.
Friday, September 01, 2006
KARL - Testa-mints
I despise the adjective Christian. Do not misunderstand me, I like the noun Christian, or at least it is tolerable. But this habit of labeling everything Christian is sooo confusing. There is this weird, parallel universe that now exists; it is almost like the real world, but in this one, everything is preceded by the prefix “Christian.”
I was at a “Christian bookstore” last week. It was not a pleasant experience. First, there was an overwhelming sense that I suck at being a Christian. From the tone of the titles I have the feeling God is a bit miffed with me because I lack “purpose”, don’t know the “secrets” and have not developed the “leader” within me. For this emotional purging I will focus on the second unpleasantry of “Christian” book shopping--the growing isolation and silliness of sectarianism. The “all things Christian” phenomenon was epitomized by the Christian mints they were selling at the counter. I am not lying! Christian mints! They are called Testa-mints. I suppose they are for casting out the demon of halitosis, and the spreading of the minty fresh good news. For my taste they needed some Christian Pepto-bismol. I felt nauseous.
What does it even mean when someone uses the prefix “Christian”? I think the implication is that the prefix Christian equals pre-approved, you do not have to worry, God likes it. But does that mean if doesn’t say “Christian” it is pagan?
In addition to bookstores and mints, here is a brief sampling of some common Christian prefixes: Christian plumber, Christian coffee shop, Christian art, Christian band, Christian dating service, Christian realtor, Christian news, Christian doctor, Christian cars (or drivers, the fish thing is confusing), Christian amusement park. Trust me this list extends to eternity. Last week I listened to an elderly man from the south describe his entire town as a Christian town.
I propose a moratorium on the prefix Christian. You know from previous tirades how I feel about this tendency for Christ followers to isolate, withdraw, and hide. The whole “us vs. them” thing is getting a bit silly.
If we do not stop this now, where does it end? It will not stop until we have Christian Viagra. (I have paused for several minutes, letting my imagination take me away. I am pretending it is my responsibility to market Christian Viagra to the church. I see dollar signs, big evangelical bucks. I can not reveal the entire campaign in a family blog, but let’s just say you will not sing such familiar hymns as He is Risen, Stand up for Jesus, and Up from the Dead He Arose in quite the same way.)
If we do not cease substituting the word Christian for the life of Jesus we will deservedly appear as ignorant, intolerant buffoons who care about one thing: hunkering down in our own little Christian ghetto, staying safe, unstained.
Interesting note, as I write this I am sitting in a coffee shop. It is owned by a lovely Christian couple. It is one of the more “Christian” shops I have enjoyed, yet there is not one piece of Christian kitsch to buy. Not one bible, not even a single verse of the day. The music is normal, no down with the devil t-shirts or WWJD bracelets. And it is the most eclectic gathering of people around. Just a few weeks ago my coffee was served by a lovely tattooed, lesbian girl with the most delightful demeanor. In fact many folks in my little town, some with really unique persuasions, consider this to be “their” place. It is Christian in this way--customers are loved and valued just as they are, each person is someone to be served, most of all it is safe.
To use the label, the adjective of Christian, is to be lazy and afraid. Not in the history of the world has someone who is hurting and seeking to be loved by Jesus found him by sucking on a mint.
Real Love, the kind I’m pretty sure Jesus meant for us to know and live, is so hard. It takes hanging in there, getting dirty, being present. Maybe that is why Jesus on his last night prayed something like this, “don’t take them out of the world, but empower them to change the world they’re in.
I was at a “Christian bookstore” last week. It was not a pleasant experience. First, there was an overwhelming sense that I suck at being a Christian. From the tone of the titles I have the feeling God is a bit miffed with me because I lack “purpose”, don’t know the “secrets” and have not developed the “leader” within me. For this emotional purging I will focus on the second unpleasantry of “Christian” book shopping--the growing isolation and silliness of sectarianism. The “all things Christian” phenomenon was epitomized by the Christian mints they were selling at the counter. I am not lying! Christian mints! They are called Testa-mints. I suppose they are for casting out the demon of halitosis, and the spreading of the minty fresh good news. For my taste they needed some Christian Pepto-bismol. I felt nauseous.
What does it even mean when someone uses the prefix “Christian”? I think the implication is that the prefix Christian equals pre-approved, you do not have to worry, God likes it. But does that mean if doesn’t say “Christian” it is pagan?
In addition to bookstores and mints, here is a brief sampling of some common Christian prefixes: Christian plumber, Christian coffee shop, Christian art, Christian band, Christian dating service, Christian realtor, Christian news, Christian doctor, Christian cars (or drivers, the fish thing is confusing), Christian amusement park. Trust me this list extends to eternity. Last week I listened to an elderly man from the south describe his entire town as a Christian town.
I propose a moratorium on the prefix Christian. You know from previous tirades how I feel about this tendency for Christ followers to isolate, withdraw, and hide. The whole “us vs. them” thing is getting a bit silly.
If we do not stop this now, where does it end? It will not stop until we have Christian Viagra. (I have paused for several minutes, letting my imagination take me away. I am pretending it is my responsibility to market Christian Viagra to the church. I see dollar signs, big evangelical bucks. I can not reveal the entire campaign in a family blog, but let’s just say you will not sing such familiar hymns as He is Risen, Stand up for Jesus, and Up from the Dead He Arose in quite the same way.)
If we do not cease substituting the word Christian for the life of Jesus we will deservedly appear as ignorant, intolerant buffoons who care about one thing: hunkering down in our own little Christian ghetto, staying safe, unstained.
Interesting note, as I write this I am sitting in a coffee shop. It is owned by a lovely Christian couple. It is one of the more “Christian” shops I have enjoyed, yet there is not one piece of Christian kitsch to buy. Not one bible, not even a single verse of the day. The music is normal, no down with the devil t-shirts or WWJD bracelets. And it is the most eclectic gathering of people around. Just a few weeks ago my coffee was served by a lovely tattooed, lesbian girl with the most delightful demeanor. In fact many folks in my little town, some with really unique persuasions, consider this to be “their” place. It is Christian in this way--customers are loved and valued just as they are, each person is someone to be served, most of all it is safe.
To use the label, the adjective of Christian, is to be lazy and afraid. Not in the history of the world has someone who is hurting and seeking to be loved by Jesus found him by sucking on a mint.
Real Love, the kind I’m pretty sure Jesus meant for us to know and live, is so hard. It takes hanging in there, getting dirty, being present. Maybe that is why Jesus on his last night prayed something like this, “don’t take them out of the world, but empower them to change the world they’re in.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
MIKE - When Your Best Just Ain't Good Enough
I would certainly never be mistaken for a perfectionist, but a lazy slug I am not. I’m just me. My mom and dad never felt I was a good enough son, both for different reasons…never as smart as the Anderson girls….not an athlete like my younger brother. Just not good enough. I remember walking around Five Points trying to sell magazines to people who could barely afford to exist. I didn't do well. My boss criticized my work ethic (kind of funny since later he got sent to prison on fraud charges). Still, the message I heard was not good enough. Never dated until after college. Why risk it? I'm not good enough. So the cycle continued. I’m almost thirty and I finally find a naïve 19 year old beauty that wants to be out of the house. She doesn't know, yet, that I'm not good enough. I chase her down and capture her, marry her, then live 23 years trying to hide the real me so she won't find out I'm not good enough and leave me. It’s a relationship of smoke and mirrors and masks, on my side. Ironicly, looking back, I think she would have loved the real me, but I couldn't take that chance.
Fast forward to 8 years ago. My wife Debbie’s dead. I'm alone, again, and I'm still not good enough. My work ethic, though, is very good. Have been successful in my chosen field. (chosen because I never pursued the career I had a degree in, didn't even try, because I knew I'd fail. I was not good enough). Have 2 teenage kids that love me, but am certainly not good enough to be their only parent. After a few years decide I don't want to be alone for the rest of my life. Join a singles group. According to my counselor, singles groups, arguably, are the biggest collection of dysfunctional people ever assembled in one place. Still not good enough. Find a lady as needy as I am and start the smoke and mirrors thing. Starts to crumble in a year and blows to hell in 18 months. She calls me on my stuff. I'm still not good enough. I should have known it. Maybe counseling could help? My counselor sides with her, says I'm all messed up, but he doesn't say I'm not good enough, only broken. Says there is hope for me, if I want to work my butt off. Why not? What do I have to lose? So I jump in with both feet.
Four years of recovery and now I am part of an amazing church, The Refuge. Over the last few years, some incredible people have been telling me I am good enough. I am starting to believe it, some. Am reaching out to people. Being real. being honest. Trying so hard to be safe. Could it be that me, messed up Mike, could actually be good enough?
Ah, but here he comes roaring in like a lion. To steal, kill and destroy. The condemner of my soul. You are not only not good enough, but you are actually no good at all. And I start to believe his voice, it is so strong. So clear. And if that is not enough I feel others are thinking the same thing when I can't be there for them the way they think I should be. Maybe my folks, my boss, the girls, the voices were right, are right. I'm not good enough.
But then a light goes on as I see some friends, wonderful friends, gifted friends, loving friends, compassionate friends (friends that the hurting would mistake for Jesus in the flesh) feeling the same way about themselves. That they are not good enough, either. It's always easier to see the lie in the lives of others than it is in our own lives.
Then, I get a revelation from God. He is talking to my heart. Your best will never be good enough for everyone. Jesus came to this earth. Poured out His love. Sweat. Drops of blood. Cried over mankind. Gave up His life. AND IT WAS STILL NOT GOOD ENOUGH, FOR SOME AND THEY KILLED HIM. And it is still that way today. So if Jesus' best wasn't good enough for some people, what makes you think your best could be? Just be who I made you to be. Keep trying to improve. Keep loving. Caring. Giving. Keep pouring your heart out. Keep getting messy. Being raw. Being honest and real. Being safe. Just keep showing up in the lives of others. That is the best you can do. That is all I expect. I will be there to lead you and guide you. Your best is good enough for ME.
Fast forward to 8 years ago. My wife Debbie’s dead. I'm alone, again, and I'm still not good enough. My work ethic, though, is very good. Have been successful in my chosen field. (chosen because I never pursued the career I had a degree in, didn't even try, because I knew I'd fail. I was not good enough). Have 2 teenage kids that love me, but am certainly not good enough to be their only parent. After a few years decide I don't want to be alone for the rest of my life. Join a singles group. According to my counselor, singles groups, arguably, are the biggest collection of dysfunctional people ever assembled in one place. Still not good enough. Find a lady as needy as I am and start the smoke and mirrors thing. Starts to crumble in a year and blows to hell in 18 months. She calls me on my stuff. I'm still not good enough. I should have known it. Maybe counseling could help? My counselor sides with her, says I'm all messed up, but he doesn't say I'm not good enough, only broken. Says there is hope for me, if I want to work my butt off. Why not? What do I have to lose? So I jump in with both feet.
Four years of recovery and now I am part of an amazing church, The Refuge. Over the last few years, some incredible people have been telling me I am good enough. I am starting to believe it, some. Am reaching out to people. Being real. being honest. Trying so hard to be safe. Could it be that me, messed up Mike, could actually be good enough?
Ah, but here he comes roaring in like a lion. To steal, kill and destroy. The condemner of my soul. You are not only not good enough, but you are actually no good at all. And I start to believe his voice, it is so strong. So clear. And if that is not enough I feel others are thinking the same thing when I can't be there for them the way they think I should be. Maybe my folks, my boss, the girls, the voices were right, are right. I'm not good enough.
But then a light goes on as I see some friends, wonderful friends, gifted friends, loving friends, compassionate friends (friends that the hurting would mistake for Jesus in the flesh) feeling the same way about themselves. That they are not good enough, either. It's always easier to see the lie in the lives of others than it is in our own lives.
Then, I get a revelation from God. He is talking to my heart. Your best will never be good enough for everyone. Jesus came to this earth. Poured out His love. Sweat. Drops of blood. Cried over mankind. Gave up His life. AND IT WAS STILL NOT GOOD ENOUGH, FOR SOME AND THEY KILLED HIM. And it is still that way today. So if Jesus' best wasn't good enough for some people, what makes you think your best could be? Just be who I made you to be. Keep trying to improve. Keep loving. Caring. Giving. Keep pouring your heart out. Keep getting messy. Being raw. Being honest and real. Being safe. Just keep showing up in the lives of others. That is the best you can do. That is all I expect. I will be there to lead you and guide you. Your best is good enough for ME.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
KATHY - My Love-Hate Thing with Community
We’ve been spending the past few weeks talking about community at The Refuge. Everyone who knows me knows I love community. I love relationships. I love people connecting with God and each other. I love to see someone who thinks they are unlovable start to feel loved because I remember how much that meant to me a long time ago. But it’s not just a love thing. Please do not think I have some crazy idealistic view of community, thinking it’s a piece of cake to pull off. Real community is brutally hard, maybe one of the hardest things we can do as human beings.
Every church values community, this is nothing new. Look on every church website and you will see a list of small groups and ways for community to “happen” at a church. Why are so many strategies necessary to pull off “community”? Why is it not just our natural bent to want to be together, love each other, share our lives with each other, and reach out to others and love them, too?
Because we are all messed up. Most of us have a love-hate thing with community. I know I do. I want it. I want people in my life, to know how I’m really doing, to care about me, to pray for me, to carry my burdens when they are too heavy for me. And I also don’t want it. Why? Because it’s hard. It’s easier to go solo. Having people in my life exposes me. They see things I don’t really want them to see. They force me to think about things I don’t want to. It means I will have to sacrifice time, myself. It means I will have to trust, risk, and I’m a scaredy-cat at heart.
Like most of us, I’m sort of in this double bind. I love community. I want it. And at the same time, I hate community.
Here’s why I hate community:
1. It’s time consuming. I’ll have to be inconvenienced.
2. I am sure to get hurt.
3. It forces me to think about things differently. Everyone won’t agree with me (what’s wrong with them?) and that stinks.
4. It messes with my self-centeredness.
5. I’m asking to be annoyed, irritated, frustrated, angered, disappointed.
6. I’ll let others down, fail them, disappoint them; I’m a tried and true people-pleaser, so this is asking for trouble.
7. I’ll actually have to ask for help.
8. I won’t be able to fake it.
9. It won’t be neat and tidy (what I’m always longing for). In fact, it’ll be messy, crazy, hard and unpredictable.
Okay, so with all of these negatives, is it really worth it? I think so. For me, the loves are definitely starting to outweigh the hates.
Why I love community:
1. It’s worth the time. Jesus was about people, bottom line. Relationships are what matter. At the end of the day I won’t remember my job, my house, my stuff. I’ll remember the people I loved and that loved me.
2. It’s a place to practice becoming a better lover—of God, of people. I definitely need a place to practice. How can we live out the 2 greatest commandments Jesus gave us…“love Him, love others” without at least trying for close, intimate relationship with each other?
3. It inspires me to keep going. The courage you have—to keep fighting, living, trying—makes me want to, too.
4. The laughter. Without it, I don’t know where I’d be. It is sustaining. Life is too hard without it.
5. I can talk grace and forgiveness until I’m blue in the face, but unless I have to give it, receive it, it means nothing. I want it to mean something.
6. It keeps pointing me toward God. The more I hang around other people and listen, I am forced to think more, ask more questions, seek, wonder, question, wrestle.
7. It is glorious to be up close and personal with Jesus moving in a life, changing a person, healing, bringing hope. Nothing is more beautiful.
8. You seem to keep loving me no matter what, and for that I am very grateful.
So what do you hate about it? Love about it?
Every church values community, this is nothing new. Look on every church website and you will see a list of small groups and ways for community to “happen” at a church. Why are so many strategies necessary to pull off “community”? Why is it not just our natural bent to want to be together, love each other, share our lives with each other, and reach out to others and love them, too?
Because we are all messed up. Most of us have a love-hate thing with community. I know I do. I want it. I want people in my life, to know how I’m really doing, to care about me, to pray for me, to carry my burdens when they are too heavy for me. And I also don’t want it. Why? Because it’s hard. It’s easier to go solo. Having people in my life exposes me. They see things I don’t really want them to see. They force me to think about things I don’t want to. It means I will have to sacrifice time, myself. It means I will have to trust, risk, and I’m a scaredy-cat at heart.
Like most of us, I’m sort of in this double bind. I love community. I want it. And at the same time, I hate community.
Here’s why I hate community:
1. It’s time consuming. I’ll have to be inconvenienced.
2. I am sure to get hurt.
3. It forces me to think about things differently. Everyone won’t agree with me (what’s wrong with them?) and that stinks.
4. It messes with my self-centeredness.
5. I’m asking to be annoyed, irritated, frustrated, angered, disappointed.
6. I’ll let others down, fail them, disappoint them; I’m a tried and true people-pleaser, so this is asking for trouble.
7. I’ll actually have to ask for help.
8. I won’t be able to fake it.
9. It won’t be neat and tidy (what I’m always longing for). In fact, it’ll be messy, crazy, hard and unpredictable.
Okay, so with all of these negatives, is it really worth it? I think so. For me, the loves are definitely starting to outweigh the hates.
Why I love community:
1. It’s worth the time. Jesus was about people, bottom line. Relationships are what matter. At the end of the day I won’t remember my job, my house, my stuff. I’ll remember the people I loved and that loved me.
2. It’s a place to practice becoming a better lover—of God, of people. I definitely need a place to practice. How can we live out the 2 greatest commandments Jesus gave us…“love Him, love others” without at least trying for close, intimate relationship with each other?
3. It inspires me to keep going. The courage you have—to keep fighting, living, trying—makes me want to, too.
4. The laughter. Without it, I don’t know where I’d be. It is sustaining. Life is too hard without it.
5. I can talk grace and forgiveness until I’m blue in the face, but unless I have to give it, receive it, it means nothing. I want it to mean something.
6. It keeps pointing me toward God. The more I hang around other people and listen, I am forced to think more, ask more questions, seek, wonder, question, wrestle.
7. It is glorious to be up close and personal with Jesus moving in a life, changing a person, healing, bringing hope. Nothing is more beautiful.
8. You seem to keep loving me no matter what, and for that I am very grateful.
So what do you hate about it? Love about it?
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
KARL - Audible Follicle
I seem to be having quite a few humiliating experiences these days. I have reached the age where remembering to zip my pants is a challenge. But this past week, I was humiliated and it wasn’t even my fault. The barber was putting the finishing touches on my new coif and he mumbles “yea, hang on a sec, let me get those ear hairs for you.”
I have ear hair. I won’t drag this out like some lame open mike comedian; suffice to say I am damaged goods. This means my life is almost over. I already consider staying up until 9:30 pm an accomplishment and 4:30 a perfectly reasonable time for supper. I have only a few life stages left: I will soon believe that my bowel activity is of interest to everyone, followed by slow walking, driving by Braille and finally “APRIL, what did you do with my teeth!”
I have often said that there are only a couple of verses of scriptures that I can prove and one is “life is a vapor, it appears only for a moment.” It makes sad to think that I am getting old. I wish it made me glad, to think that I will soon live in eternity, and not even have to worry about zippers. But I can not shake the feeling that I missed too much, messed up too much. The feeling that life is too fast is a constant shadow. The brakes have gone out, the hill is steep and I sense myself uncontrollably accelerating towards eternity.
The Bible is filled with folks like me. I think an entire book, called Ecclesiastes, was written by a guy whose barber clipped his ear hair. And it made him think. Only a couple of options are available to me: freeze in fear, or make each moment count. I bet God is wanting the latter, to help me overcome fear and immobility. Besides, aren’t the best rides at the park always the fastest?
I have ear hair. I won’t drag this out like some lame open mike comedian; suffice to say I am damaged goods. This means my life is almost over. I already consider staying up until 9:30 pm an accomplishment and 4:30 a perfectly reasonable time for supper. I have only a few life stages left: I will soon believe that my bowel activity is of interest to everyone, followed by slow walking, driving by Braille and finally “APRIL, what did you do with my teeth!”
I have often said that there are only a couple of verses of scriptures that I can prove and one is “life is a vapor, it appears only for a moment.” It makes sad to think that I am getting old. I wish it made me glad, to think that I will soon live in eternity, and not even have to worry about zippers. But I can not shake the feeling that I missed too much, messed up too much. The feeling that life is too fast is a constant shadow. The brakes have gone out, the hill is steep and I sense myself uncontrollably accelerating towards eternity.
The Bible is filled with folks like me. I think an entire book, called Ecclesiastes, was written by a guy whose barber clipped his ear hair. And it made him think. Only a couple of options are available to me: freeze in fear, or make each moment count. I bet God is wanting the latter, to help me overcome fear and immobility. Besides, aren’t the best rides at the park always the fastest?
Friday, July 28, 2006
KATHY - War Wounds
I have skin cancer. Don’t worry. It’s not serious, but I had to have this thing on my chest removed a few weeks ago. 8 stitches. It’s ugly and I’m stuck with it forever. The worst part is that it was kind of my fault because a weird combination of fear, denial & busyness led me to postpone taking care of it for over 2 years. I know, you are shaking your head. You see, I am really good at taking care of other people and stink at taking care of myself. The whole thing was fairly inevitable because years ago I was one of those people who slathered with baby oil and layed out on tinfoil. A few months ago, my husband Jose and a few good friends applied some pressure and forced me to go. When it was getting cut out I bravely told the doctor “well, no big deal, it’ll just be one of my war wounds.”
That was when I hadn’t seen it yet.
The next day, when I took off the initial bandage, I was a little stunned. It was a lot bigger than I thought and right smack in the middle of my chest. I started to cry. The war wound idea didn’t feel too glamorous anymore. I just wanted to go back to how it was before. Yes, it’ll fade. Everyone tells me that (It’s not the most helpful thing to hear in the moment. “I’m sorry, what a drag” just helps so much more). Bottom line is no matter how much it fades, I’ll always have the scar.
And I don’t want to be scarred. I think that all of the time. I don’t want the ugliness of life. I don’t want pain. I don’t want loss. I don’t want struggle. I don’t want anything bad.
I just want the good. I want Utopia. I want Mayberry. I want a steady paycheck (is that too much to ask?). I want everyone to like me and never be mad at me. I want everything to stay the way it is when I’m having a good day. I want to forget about the past. I want the scar to magically heal. I guess what I really want is heaven on earth.
But that’s not real life. Jesus made that pretty clear. He was painfully honest with us, that life on earth was sure to be hard. But that somehow it could also be good, that peace was still possible. Maybe peace would come if we’d just be willing to accept the bad better?
That’s what I want to do with my pain, accept it better. Embrace the loss of dreams. Maybe God can give me new ones? Embrace my insecurities. As much as I hate them, they always force me to go back to God because I don’t know where else to go. Embrace the confusion, that I have no idea what I’m doing but I guess this is where I’m supposed to be. Embrace that others hurt me. That’s part of risking our hearts with each other. Embrace change. It’s brutal in the moment but always moves me to new, better places somehow. Embrace that God never promised this was going to be easy. My big beef these days is why does it seem like every Christian book out there makes it seem so darn easy? “8 ways you can make your scars disappear.”
Okay so my bottom line is this. At The Refuge I don’t have to hide my scar. I showed up on a Sunday night tank top and all. It’s just part of me now. And like all of my other war wounds, I guess it what makes me, me. And at The Refuge I can be me. I looked around last Sunday and I was like “wow, there are a lot of scars in this place, lots of war wounds.” We really are battle-weary soliders on the front lines. And we’re all here for some wild reason. We’re all laughing. We’re all crying. We’re in this crazy hard battle together.
And somehow it’s beautiful. Can scars really be beautiful? Maybe so. I think yours are. They remind me that God heals. Gives hope. Makes something beautiful out of ashes. I need to believe the same thing about my scars, too. It is so hard for me to do. But I know I must try. Please, let’s keep trying together.
That was when I hadn’t seen it yet.
The next day, when I took off the initial bandage, I was a little stunned. It was a lot bigger than I thought and right smack in the middle of my chest. I started to cry. The war wound idea didn’t feel too glamorous anymore. I just wanted to go back to how it was before. Yes, it’ll fade. Everyone tells me that (It’s not the most helpful thing to hear in the moment. “I’m sorry, what a drag” just helps so much more). Bottom line is no matter how much it fades, I’ll always have the scar.
And I don’t want to be scarred. I think that all of the time. I don’t want the ugliness of life. I don’t want pain. I don’t want loss. I don’t want struggle. I don’t want anything bad.
I just want the good. I want Utopia. I want Mayberry. I want a steady paycheck (is that too much to ask?). I want everyone to like me and never be mad at me. I want everything to stay the way it is when I’m having a good day. I want to forget about the past. I want the scar to magically heal. I guess what I really want is heaven on earth.
But that’s not real life. Jesus made that pretty clear. He was painfully honest with us, that life on earth was sure to be hard. But that somehow it could also be good, that peace was still possible. Maybe peace would come if we’d just be willing to accept the bad better?
That’s what I want to do with my pain, accept it better. Embrace the loss of dreams. Maybe God can give me new ones? Embrace my insecurities. As much as I hate them, they always force me to go back to God because I don’t know where else to go. Embrace the confusion, that I have no idea what I’m doing but I guess this is where I’m supposed to be. Embrace that others hurt me. That’s part of risking our hearts with each other. Embrace change. It’s brutal in the moment but always moves me to new, better places somehow. Embrace that God never promised this was going to be easy. My big beef these days is why does it seem like every Christian book out there makes it seem so darn easy? “8 ways you can make your scars disappear.”
Okay so my bottom line is this. At The Refuge I don’t have to hide my scar. I showed up on a Sunday night tank top and all. It’s just part of me now. And like all of my other war wounds, I guess it what makes me, me. And at The Refuge I can be me. I looked around last Sunday and I was like “wow, there are a lot of scars in this place, lots of war wounds.” We really are battle-weary soliders on the front lines. And we’re all here for some wild reason. We’re all laughing. We’re all crying. We’re in this crazy hard battle together.
And somehow it’s beautiful. Can scars really be beautiful? Maybe so. I think yours are. They remind me that God heals. Gives hope. Makes something beautiful out of ashes. I need to believe the same thing about my scars, too. It is so hard for me to do. But I know I must try. Please, let’s keep trying together.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
KATHY - "I Believe in You"
Last week, my best friend Elaine sent me a donation to help fund my role at The Refuge. Jotted at the bottom of the sheet she only wrote four words: “We believe in you.” I immediately started to cry. I’ve been crying a lot lately; the past 8 months have been some of my hardest. I have been so vulnerable, scared, straining to listen to God but struggling with the din of the Enemy’s voice that always tells me that I really don’t have what it takes to be a pastor, that I’m all washed up and should just go try to find a real job.
“We believe in you.”
In the same group of mail was a donation from an outside friend of The Refuge. He wrote us a letter and said “Kathy and Karl, we just want you to know we believe in you and what you are doing at the Refuge.”
“We believe in you.”
A few days later I had coffee with my friend Brenda and she gave me a belated birthday present. The card said “I believe in you” across the top with some beautiful thoughts about God’s heart for me. I was a little surprised. I’m not a big believer in “signs”, but I know there was something here I wasn’t supposed to miss.
“I believe in you.”
It’s not hard at all for me to believe in YOU, my dear and faithful friends at The Refuge. That’s not a stretch at all. I can see God all over the place, at work in your life. I can see the hard work you are doing to try to find Him, God’s healing happening, changes being made, that He has a great plan for your life and wants to give you a hope and a future. I see all of your gifts and talents, all the things that could be. The beauty despite your pain. Believing in you is a piece of cake.
Believing in me isn’t so easy. I have great faith for you and little faith for me. I am realizing this more and more lately, how difficult it is for me to really believe God is going to take good care of me. Wouldn’t I live a little different if I really believed that? I would trust more. Risk more. Doubt less. Fear less. I am tired of feeling afraid. Aren’t good Christians supposed to be confident? Aren’t we supposed to have prayed our way toward perfect peace? Isn’t God’s will supposed to be more clear?
But then I think about most every character in the Bible and quickly arrive at a helpful reality--they were all afraid, too. Maybe even more afraid than me?????? They didn’t believe they could take the next step, go any further. They were often paralyzed, tired, ready to give up. But God kept pursuing them, calling them to listen and obey the crazy things He asked them to do.
He always has the bigger picture in mind. I can never see the bigger picture; I want to so desperately. I struggle to see something that I am starting to realize is impossible for me to grasp. I can only live for this moment. Do my best to stay in when I want to run and strain to listen for God’s hope, help…please, God, just something that I can hold on to.
I think God is speaking to me through my friends. I think He is reminding me that He believes in me. That He knows my life feels hard, that it’s been confusing. He understands I have doubts, fears, that I want to give up. But He doesn’t want me to miss the beauty that exists in this desert. He doesn’t want me to forget the amazing people He has put into my life that love me no matter how small my faith is.
My friends help me believe.
That’s why we need each other so desperately. I want The Refuge to be a community that believes in each other the way God believes in us. Where we see in each other what we can’t see on our own because we’re too messed up. Where we call out God’s plan in each other’s lives and remind each other that this journey is worth it. Where we show up for each other and send little notes out of the blue that say “I believe in you.”
“We believe in you.”
In the same group of mail was a donation from an outside friend of The Refuge. He wrote us a letter and said “Kathy and Karl, we just want you to know we believe in you and what you are doing at the Refuge.”
“We believe in you.”
A few days later I had coffee with my friend Brenda and she gave me a belated birthday present. The card said “I believe in you” across the top with some beautiful thoughts about God’s heart for me. I was a little surprised. I’m not a big believer in “signs”, but I know there was something here I wasn’t supposed to miss.
“I believe in you.”
It’s not hard at all for me to believe in YOU, my dear and faithful friends at The Refuge. That’s not a stretch at all. I can see God all over the place, at work in your life. I can see the hard work you are doing to try to find Him, God’s healing happening, changes being made, that He has a great plan for your life and wants to give you a hope and a future. I see all of your gifts and talents, all the things that could be. The beauty despite your pain. Believing in you is a piece of cake.
Believing in me isn’t so easy. I have great faith for you and little faith for me. I am realizing this more and more lately, how difficult it is for me to really believe God is going to take good care of me. Wouldn’t I live a little different if I really believed that? I would trust more. Risk more. Doubt less. Fear less. I am tired of feeling afraid. Aren’t good Christians supposed to be confident? Aren’t we supposed to have prayed our way toward perfect peace? Isn’t God’s will supposed to be more clear?
But then I think about most every character in the Bible and quickly arrive at a helpful reality--they were all afraid, too. Maybe even more afraid than me?????? They didn’t believe they could take the next step, go any further. They were often paralyzed, tired, ready to give up. But God kept pursuing them, calling them to listen and obey the crazy things He asked them to do.
He always has the bigger picture in mind. I can never see the bigger picture; I want to so desperately. I struggle to see something that I am starting to realize is impossible for me to grasp. I can only live for this moment. Do my best to stay in when I want to run and strain to listen for God’s hope, help…please, God, just something that I can hold on to.
I think God is speaking to me through my friends. I think He is reminding me that He believes in me. That He knows my life feels hard, that it’s been confusing. He understands I have doubts, fears, that I want to give up. But He doesn’t want me to miss the beauty that exists in this desert. He doesn’t want me to forget the amazing people He has put into my life that love me no matter how small my faith is.
My friends help me believe.
That’s why we need each other so desperately. I want The Refuge to be a community that believes in each other the way God believes in us. Where we see in each other what we can’t see on our own because we’re too messed up. Where we call out God’s plan in each other’s lives and remind each other that this journey is worth it. Where we show up for each other and send little notes out of the blue that say “I believe in you.”
Monday, July 17, 2006
KARL - Rock Bottom
In recovery speak, they talk about hitting our the bottom. DUI, divorce, homeless, bankrupt, STD’s all can be “bottom” moments that begin a new direction.
A few nights ago I may have hit bottom.
I am addicted to food. Actually, I am depressed. Food is what I use to try to feel good. A quick detour for those of you who do not understand depression, or at least my version, it is the inability to experience or sometimes even imagine true pleasure. I feel numb more than anything else. Sometimes I am sad, but when I am depressed I mostly feel numb. This is where sugar comes in. You can insert in place of sugar any number of quick fixes: sex, risky behavior, beer, shopping, porno, work and success, fighting, etc. The list is much longer than this, and I have tried them all, but my favorite is always sugar. Not very glamourous, but it is my default addiction. It is a bit embarrassing in that guys are not normally talking this addiction. The guys seem to often have work addictions, but at least they get six-figure incomes and a nice retirement. I get a huge ass and diabetes.
I seldom know why I am getting depressed, or even that it is happening, I just seem to not fit into any of my clothes anymore. I think sugar will make me happy. It feels good, and if it feels good, I might be happy, even if it is for the briefest of moments while I chew. This has been an especially hard season, and the darkness is fast approaching.
Yesterday I woke with a new resolve to defeat my dependency on food, actually I always wake convinced that I will never again fall to the temptation to gorge. I drank a low calorie nutritional drink for breakfast and had a ½ apple for lunch. Wow, I am healed.
But the evening is what always gets me. After 10 hours of sobriety, I deserve a little reward. I never have a little of anything, however. Then I always have this thought, “oh, screw it, I am a loser and now I have blown it. I may as well go all the way…”
I gorged. Picture a bear at the spring salmon run, or any six year old left unattended in the candy store. I discovered Nutella (Nutella is a peanut butter like concoction made of hazelnut and chocolate that Satan invented. In the periodic table it is the caloric equivalent of lead.) I began with Nutella on a graham cracker, but it felt more like a tease. Alas, there were no more crackers. The next installment was Nutella on a spoon, a large spoon. Good, but not quite enough. I needed something substantial to carry the Nutella. I found chocolate pop-tarts. I promise that in that moment it made perfect sense, the proper antidote to my pain. After what a civilian would have considered an excessive amount, I loaded a chocolate pop-tart with an inch of Nutella frosting and looked for Nirvana.
That must be a bottom. I hope it will motivate me to a new direction. I called the doctor, resolved to get back on my med’s. This blog has no real point, just a confession.
p.s. some of you might be reading, starting to feel anxious. How can we help Karl, you might wonder? Just understanding. That’s all I need. And please, no favorite sugar free jello recipes.
A few nights ago I may have hit bottom.
I am addicted to food. Actually, I am depressed. Food is what I use to try to feel good. A quick detour for those of you who do not understand depression, or at least my version, it is the inability to experience or sometimes even imagine true pleasure. I feel numb more than anything else. Sometimes I am sad, but when I am depressed I mostly feel numb. This is where sugar comes in. You can insert in place of sugar any number of quick fixes: sex, risky behavior, beer, shopping, porno, work and success, fighting, etc. The list is much longer than this, and I have tried them all, but my favorite is always sugar. Not very glamourous, but it is my default addiction. It is a bit embarrassing in that guys are not normally talking this addiction. The guys seem to often have work addictions, but at least they get six-figure incomes and a nice retirement. I get a huge ass and diabetes.
I seldom know why I am getting depressed, or even that it is happening, I just seem to not fit into any of my clothes anymore. I think sugar will make me happy. It feels good, and if it feels good, I might be happy, even if it is for the briefest of moments while I chew. This has been an especially hard season, and the darkness is fast approaching.
Yesterday I woke with a new resolve to defeat my dependency on food, actually I always wake convinced that I will never again fall to the temptation to gorge. I drank a low calorie nutritional drink for breakfast and had a ½ apple for lunch. Wow, I am healed.
But the evening is what always gets me. After 10 hours of sobriety, I deserve a little reward. I never have a little of anything, however. Then I always have this thought, “oh, screw it, I am a loser and now I have blown it. I may as well go all the way…”
I gorged. Picture a bear at the spring salmon run, or any six year old left unattended in the candy store. I discovered Nutella (Nutella is a peanut butter like concoction made of hazelnut and chocolate that Satan invented. In the periodic table it is the caloric equivalent of lead.) I began with Nutella on a graham cracker, but it felt more like a tease. Alas, there were no more crackers. The next installment was Nutella on a spoon, a large spoon. Good, but not quite enough. I needed something substantial to carry the Nutella. I found chocolate pop-tarts. I promise that in that moment it made perfect sense, the proper antidote to my pain. After what a civilian would have considered an excessive amount, I loaded a chocolate pop-tart with an inch of Nutella frosting and looked for Nirvana.
That must be a bottom. I hope it will motivate me to a new direction. I called the doctor, resolved to get back on my med’s. This blog has no real point, just a confession.
p.s. some of you might be reading, starting to feel anxious. How can we help Karl, you might wonder? Just understanding. That’s all I need. And please, no favorite sugar free jello recipes.
Monday, July 10, 2006
KARL--Church Uniforms
Here is my proposal: let's all get church uniforms.
Uniforms are great! They make it easy to recognize who is on your team and who is the enemy. A uniform could help take some of the guess work out of who is "in" and who is "out" , who we are for, who we are against. I will attempt to design a uniform that I think best represents and serves the suburban, typical, evangelical, church (S.T.E.N.CH)
Ok, I think it needs to be one solid color, something light, say peach or barely beige, because brown and black and yellow are not often seen. We like mostly whites.
It should be extremely masculine. It needs to have pants and a zipper, nothing too frilly or even remotely androgynous. You will see woman in attendance at S.T.E.N.CH, but not in any decision making capacity. God made them to be happiest in the nursery, didn't He?
It needs to be highly flammable, because everyone knows Jesus hates it when you smoke. Enough said.
Pockets are needed, but only the right side. Anything to do with the "left" is disgusting.
I think a nice red, white and blue tie would help make it clear that we are primarily concerned with America.
A small cross necklace, of course empty, without Jesus hanging across it, is a nice
way to say Not Catholic. We are still pretty pissed off about that Rome thing.
It must be medium sized. This is subtle, but we really do not like obese people. Jesus wants excellence, and chubby Christians are just not trying hard enough.
The helmet is critical. It must be able to protect our brains and ears from anything that does not come from our team. Something that would limit our vision and ability to hear would be helpful. "be careful little eyes what you see..."
Finally, winged tipped shoes. Nothing says we are "conservative" like wing tips.
I hope this catches on. It seems critical that we be able to identify who is not on our team. This idea of loving people as they are as the great Christian distinction is just not working very well.
If this fails I have this really cool, secret handshake I am working on.
Ok, I am dying to know your thoughts, so let us know. Anything you would add to the uniform?
Karl
Uniforms are great! They make it easy to recognize who is on your team and who is the enemy. A uniform could help take some of the guess work out of who is "in" and who is "out" , who we are for, who we are against. I will attempt to design a uniform that I think best represents and serves the suburban, typical, evangelical, church (S.T.E.N.CH)
Ok, I think it needs to be one solid color, something light, say peach or barely beige, because brown and black and yellow are not often seen. We like mostly whites.
It should be extremely masculine. It needs to have pants and a zipper, nothing too frilly or even remotely androgynous. You will see woman in attendance at S.T.E.N.CH, but not in any decision making capacity. God made them to be happiest in the nursery, didn't He?
It needs to be highly flammable, because everyone knows Jesus hates it when you smoke. Enough said.
Pockets are needed, but only the right side. Anything to do with the "left" is disgusting.
I think a nice red, white and blue tie would help make it clear that we are primarily concerned with America.
A small cross necklace, of course empty, without Jesus hanging across it, is a nice
way to say Not Catholic. We are still pretty pissed off about that Rome thing.
It must be medium sized. This is subtle, but we really do not like obese people. Jesus wants excellence, and chubby Christians are just not trying hard enough.
The helmet is critical. It must be able to protect our brains and ears from anything that does not come from our team. Something that would limit our vision and ability to hear would be helpful. "be careful little eyes what you see..."
Finally, winged tipped shoes. Nothing says we are "conservative" like wing tips.
I hope this catches on. It seems critical that we be able to identify who is not on our team. This idea of loving people as they are as the great Christian distinction is just not working very well.
If this fails I have this really cool, secret handshake I am working on.
Ok, I am dying to know your thoughts, so let us know. Anything you would add to the uniform?
Karl
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
KARL - Blogged Down
This is my first blog, and it will be a daily blog. Just like my “devotions” are daily. I am thinking twice a week is a good mark.
So here goes, I am now a blogger. I do not think it can be all that difficult, lots of my friends do it, and there are now 3,000,000,000 bloggers in the world. (I am not sure of the exact number, I just pulled that number out of the place my brother says I get most of my facts.) I am in a cool coffee shop with free wireless and surrounded by 7 people under 30, and I think they are also blogging. This is so cool; I am actually about to blog. I have heard so much about it, how famous people have thousands of people read their blogs. I am about to think/write something so profound that people will wish they could know God like I do, and of course I will give God all the glory for this because I am just a tool. I have a hunch that I am probably going to be a pretty good blogger.
I am just going to start typing and see where the wisdom wants to go….
Aljoaiub qoe;ljas;pui p[aljfwq;l bjpojetqj ljou wpou jpoqaitHmmm, can you type in tongues?
I remember this feeling. I have had it since Junior High.
I went to my first dance in 8th grade. I was not a popular kid, so I was not with a posse, I went alone. I heard dances are lots of fun and everyone goes.I stood with my back pressed against the wall, watching all the cool kids; they seemed so natural and smooth. It looked so easy. I have hunch that I am probably a pretty good dancer. I think all you have to do is have some type of seizure and nature takes its course. The dj announces that it is time for the final song, I ask Pam S. who sits next to me in history and whose mom has shrunk all her clothes in the dryer. She is hot.We walk out onto the floor, I close my eyes and seize away. I am in some convulsion when my eyes open and I cannot find Pam. I do a slow twirl, maybe she is behind me. Near the end of my 360o search I spot her back, as she and her friends are giggling and almost out the door. There is no graceful way to leave the dance floor alone, especially when everyone is staring and pointing. For just a moment I think I must be some dance prodigy. After a closer look, I do not.
Why does everything look so much easier when others are doing it?Marriage? Piece of cake, look at all the happy faces of the married people, a certain sign.Parenting? Why, it has been done for x number of years (Insert your own number please, I have been sitting too long and my facts receptacle is sore. Fundamentalist, a quick reminder that anything over 6,000 gets you kicked out of the club)Christian? Ok, when I signed on it was pretty clearly stated that this was a piece of cake. I was sure I had found something I could be good at. It was supposed to be like dancing or blogging. However, I feel like while everyone else is gently swaying to the heavenly rhythms my spiritual walk looks like some guy with leg cramps.
Following Christ is hard for me. I want things He tells me are bad for me, and I sometimes have no interest in the stuff He is recommending. I sit in church and I see people nodding their heads, raising their hands, it looks so easy.
Why does it seem so simple for others and not for me?If like me you feel like you are on the short bus heading to heaven, maybe we can stumble and gyrate together. You don’t have to be the spiritual equivalent to Pam S. I just don’t want to be on the dance floor alone.
Karl
p.s. this blogging thing is a snap, I just finished about a thousand words (I took a walk, facts are ready to pour out of me)And my ten minute brain dump only took 4 hours. I am a natural.
posted by karl @ 4:08 PM 0 comments
So here goes, I am now a blogger. I do not think it can be all that difficult, lots of my friends do it, and there are now 3,000,000,000 bloggers in the world. (I am not sure of the exact number, I just pulled that number out of the place my brother says I get most of my facts.) I am in a cool coffee shop with free wireless and surrounded by 7 people under 30, and I think they are also blogging. This is so cool; I am actually about to blog. I have heard so much about it, how famous people have thousands of people read their blogs. I am about to think/write something so profound that people will wish they could know God like I do, and of course I will give God all the glory for this because I am just a tool. I have a hunch that I am probably going to be a pretty good blogger.
I am just going to start typing and see where the wisdom wants to go….
Aljoaiub qoe;ljas;pui p[aljfwq;l bjpojetqj ljou wpou jpoqaitHmmm, can you type in tongues?
I remember this feeling. I have had it since Junior High.
I went to my first dance in 8th grade. I was not a popular kid, so I was not with a posse, I went alone. I heard dances are lots of fun and everyone goes.I stood with my back pressed against the wall, watching all the cool kids; they seemed so natural and smooth. It looked so easy. I have hunch that I am probably a pretty good dancer. I think all you have to do is have some type of seizure and nature takes its course. The dj announces that it is time for the final song, I ask Pam S. who sits next to me in history and whose mom has shrunk all her clothes in the dryer. She is hot.We walk out onto the floor, I close my eyes and seize away. I am in some convulsion when my eyes open and I cannot find Pam. I do a slow twirl, maybe she is behind me. Near the end of my 360o search I spot her back, as she and her friends are giggling and almost out the door. There is no graceful way to leave the dance floor alone, especially when everyone is staring and pointing. For just a moment I think I must be some dance prodigy. After a closer look, I do not.
Why does everything look so much easier when others are doing it?Marriage? Piece of cake, look at all the happy faces of the married people, a certain sign.Parenting? Why, it has been done for x number of years (Insert your own number please, I have been sitting too long and my facts receptacle is sore. Fundamentalist, a quick reminder that anything over 6,000 gets you kicked out of the club)Christian? Ok, when I signed on it was pretty clearly stated that this was a piece of cake. I was sure I had found something I could be good at. It was supposed to be like dancing or blogging. However, I feel like while everyone else is gently swaying to the heavenly rhythms my spiritual walk looks like some guy with leg cramps.
Following Christ is hard for me. I want things He tells me are bad for me, and I sometimes have no interest in the stuff He is recommending. I sit in church and I see people nodding their heads, raising their hands, it looks so easy.
Why does it seem so simple for others and not for me?If like me you feel like you are on the short bus heading to heaven, maybe we can stumble and gyrate together. You don’t have to be the spiritual equivalent to Pam S. I just don’t want to be on the dance floor alone.
Karl
p.s. this blogging thing is a snap, I just finished about a thousand words (I took a walk, facts are ready to pour out of me)And my ten minute brain dump only took 4 hours. I am a natural.
posted by karl @ 4:08 PM 0 comments
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