Reality Is . . .

I am shallow. I am superficial. And that is no accident.

You can find me with my head in a book, ear buds plugged into my mp3 player. It help keeps reality where it belongs . . . out there. Some days you may find me channel-surfing, looking for a game or some show where all the problems are nicely resolved in an hour or less. Most days I'm sitting here in my chair, two computer screens on my desk. That's right, two! I'm playing the PS3 on one and browsing the internet on the other. Reality doesn't stand a chance of getting any closer than arm's length.

You see, reality and I aren't on speaking terms, and we haven't been for quite some time. It accuses me of "checking out". I accuse it of being cruel and harsh. What do you think?

Reality is dollar bills I hand out to homeless people stretching out a hand. Each time driving home the point that there's nothing I can do to change their lives.

Reality is the bus people that aren't quite all there. The people at the downtown stop with empty faces and vacant eyes.

Reality is the girl coming home for Thanksgiving, her body found a few days later.

Reality is the mail from the charities and organizations, all telling me that -

These people are hungry

These people are cold

These people are sick

These people are dying

Won't you help them?

Can't you help them?

Reality is bills, bills, and more bills, 'cause nothing in life is free.

Reality is the broken hearts, the broken dreams, the broken lives, the broken minds . . .

And what do I have to offer? Religious platitudes? Hollow words of false encouragement? An impotent feeling of guilt and shame that I can do nothing to lighten the burdens they bear?

So goodbye reality. It's been . . . real.

Red Letters In A New Light

So I stopped reading my Bible for a while. On purpose.

*Pauses for outraged cries and shocked gasps*

I know, this admission is akin to saying that Harry Potter is a better Jesus figure than Aslan. For a religion (I use that word purposefully) that places such a strong emphasis on scripture reading, putting aside the Bible on purpose seems an almost unpardonable sin.

But I realized something a while ago. The Jesus I saw on paper was a very reserved figure, very much above other people, unapproachable, distant, lacking affection and frequently impatient. He simply wasn't . . . accessible. I could very easily imagine Jesus as being God, but the thought of him ever smiling seemed almost sacrilegious.

So I decided to take some time and let God address a number of wrong ideas. The thick layers of guilt and shame that had built up over the years finally cracked and slid off my weary shoulders. I became aware of a rather shocking reality.

I am loved.

Not for what I do. Not for what I've achieved. Not for how many people I witness to or how long I spend each day in Bible and prayer or how many times I've served breakfast to the homeless.

I am not the means to an end. I am not just a tool to be used for the advancement of the kingdom. I am the pursued, sought-after, beloved child of the Most High.

And so I crack open my Bible once again, not out of guilt or obligation, but rather to gain a better look at the One who loves me so much. I'm somewhat surprised by what I found. The Jesus of the Bible hasn't changed, but I certainly have.

Halloween & Cut-Offs

I went to a Halloween party on Friday night (costumes mandatory). I have certain friends who would disown me for this statement, but it's never been my favorite "holiday". Sure, I loved getting candy as a kid, but I'm not creative enough to make cool costumes and I've never been a fan of horror movies. But since I really like my friends, I decided to throw together a costume and go.

I decided to go as Tobias Funke, a character on the hilarious show Arrested Development. So I got the fake mustache and glasses, the hair gel and fake blood (hairplug episode). And to really make my costume complete, I picked up a pair of jeans from the thrift shop and cut off the legs to make a disturbingly short pair of cut-offs. You see, Tobias is a "never nude", someone who can't ever be completely naked. So I put them on underneath my clothes and went off to the party.

The costume went over surprisingly well, even winning me a bottle of wine as "Best Costume". People especially enjoyed the business cards of Tobias Funke: Analrapist (please watch the show before you judge me). Of course, people familiar with the show were asking before long if I was in fact a "never nude". This obviously resulted in me pulling down my pants . . . again and again and again. Each time people laughed in delight (not usually the reaction you want when taking off your pants).

Ask anyone who knows me and they'll probably say I'm not the type to pull down my pants for fun. That kind of humor has never really been my thing. But see, I wasn't pulling down my pants, Tobias was. And that made it ok.

Kinda like I'm not the complaining about a difficult person at work, that's Work Steve. I'm not the one with the cutting sarcastic put-down, that's just Hangin' Out Steve. I'm not joining others in speaking ill of another, that's Fitting In Steve. And I'm certainly not self-righteously telling others what they think is stupid, that's Keeping It Real Steve (now I'm thinking of "When keeping it real goes wrong" from the Chapelle Show).

How many masks and personas do I hide behind in order to justify hurtful words, resentful attitudes, and selfish thoughts? How many times do I become someone else so I can say or do something I know I shouldn't?

I've realized that I too am a "never nude". No, I may not wear cut-offs underneath my clothes (or do I?), but I certainly keep a protective barrier around me at all times. I'm much more willing to interact with others through an illusory intermediary, keeping them at arm's lengths at all time.

Really, though, what kind of relationship is that? What kind of community is created if everyone acted like that? Actually, don't answer that. I'm pretty sure I know.

Ctrl+Alt+Del?

I go through periods of really hating this blog. It doesn't live up to my idealized expectations. I am neither witty nor profound. I want to go back and delete a number of my posts, or at least severely edit them. I'm not sure why I felt compelled to write much of it.

Even though this isn't really read by many people (and trust me, I'm ok with that), it still bothers me that this doesn't represent my "best work". I force myself to hit "publish post" as soon as I'm done with my first draft, for better or worse. I cringe when I read it later, seeing numerous flaws that I itch to correct.

But I don't. In my search for honesty, transparency and vulnerability I let it all sit out there. I've tried so long to manipulate everyone's perception of me that to simply blurt out some fear or hurt is near torturous. It's entirely possible that this is an incredibly stupid idea. It wouldn't be the first time. But I've become so sick of the masks and illusory projections that I want to rip the curtain back. The Wizard is a sad, little man.

Please trust me on this - I'm not looking for sympathy or validation. I'm in a transitional period that's lasted the better part of a decade now. It's not particularly pretty, it's just me. And trying to be more than just me has gotten me in some pretty bad places in the past.

Freedom?

So I just started reading Through Painted Deserts by Donald Miller. It's about (as far as I can tell so far) his journey from Houston, Texas to Oregon. Having just been to the Pacific Northwest about a month ago (and wanting desperately to leave Upstate NY), I figured it would be a good read.

Right from the very beginning the theme of leaving has captured me. I have a hard time leaving anything if I don't have something specific already lined up for my next step. I'm getting to the point where I just want to leave, to strike out on some adventure with only the vaguest destination in mind.

I've always equated lacking a plan with being irresponsible. I'm bound by the fear of things not working out, the fear of finding out that what's "out there" is actually worse than what I know here. But now it seems that I may be reaching the point where it's just worth it to take the chance.

I feel my life has been split into a number of pieces and parceled out to all my obligations and expectations. A job and a wife. Rent and a car payment. Even my fantasy football teams demand some attention. I feel trapped, even . . . lost? At the very least unsure of where I am. And completely clueless as to where I am going. I am not living life. Life is consuming me.

Ok, so I thought I was going somewhere with this, but now my wife has some sort of wedding dress shopping show on TV and my brain is trying to crawl out my ear. I doubt I had anything profound to say. But I will be giving some thought to the idea that making a move without having everything lined up in advance may not be a bad thing. Being open to change and adventure could actually be a very good thing.

Lessons On The Bus

It's disheartening to be confronted with your own ugliness. Again.

By taking the bus to and from work, I get to spend over an hour each day in a rather confined space with some . . . interesting people. Of course you get some "normal" business folk like me, just going to and from their 9-5 (or 8-4 in my case).

But then you get the . . . "others". And it's amazing how quickly I can discern a book from its rather unkempt cover. I've become so skilled at sizing up a person at a glance and assigning them to a neat little box.

A neat little box that I'd like to keep far away from me. All I want to do is find a seat not too close to anyone, put in my earbuds or dig out a book, and ignore everyone around me until I get to work or home. But yet they seem to insist on invading my space. They may speak too loudly on their cellphone, they may scratch themselves with grimy fingers, they may just . . . smell. Yes, some of them smell. And not pleasant.

So I resent them. I resent them for infringing on my desire to be blissfully blind to the plights of others. I resent the possibility of my cleanliness being compromised by their proximity. I've worked too hard to be separate and distinct from these "others".

And who are they? They are poor and unemployed. They are uncouth and lacking in hygiene. They are homeless. They are mentally ill.

They are my "least of these".

They are the Jesuses on the bus.

And I sit as far away from them as possible.

Bad and Loving It

I have a problem with doing anything poorly. It's the perfectionist in me. If I try a new pursuit and I'm not good at it, I almost always immediately discard it and go looking for something else.

If some friends invited me to start playing croquet with them, I would probably buy my own set to start practicing. I would scour the internet for tips and techniques to improve my "game". I probably wouldn't inject myself with HGH, but I may consider it if I was lagging behind.

And it's kind of weird that I act this way, because I'm not all that ultra-competitive. I'm perfectly fine with losing, or just playing a game and not keeping score. I just hate the thought of being bad at something.

I think it's pride (duh!). I do a lot (often unsuccessfully) to avoid suffering embarrassment. I put a lot of effort and forethought into protecting my fragile ego. And to what end? To construct the illusion of a competent person? To inflate my value in the eyes of others by being "that guy who's good at stuff"?

I want to learn to enjoy being bad at something. Maybe I'll start singing out loud in my cringe-inducing tone-deaf voice. Okay, maybe not. But I'd at least like to start engaging in things I haven't tried before without the crippling self-doubt. I'd like to enjoy the process, not just the feeling of mastering a new subject. I'd like to try, then fail, then smile and try again. I'd like to find worth and value in something other than my rate of success. I'd like to learn what it feels like to fall and be caught by the strong arms of Father.

I want to do something poorly, and love every minute of it.

Vision

It's that time of year again - the season of political campaign ads. Every commercial break there seems to be some smarmy politician patting themself on the back or sticking a knife into someone else's. I hate politics for a variety of reasons, but part of it is my inherent distrust of anyone with a Vision.

"But Steve," you say, "vision is good! We need people with vision, it's how things get done!"

Well imaginary person, I'll certainly give you that. I actually believe vision is a good and necessary thing as well. My distrust of Vision stems from my own past failures.

What I've learned from past experience is that it's possible to elevate Vision over people. That there can come a point where the needs of the individual must be subjugated so that the Vision can flourish. That in my passion to see the Vision fulfilled, I can lose sight of the importance and value of the people around me.

So I have vowed to not let Vision trump people in the future. Will I still screw up? Without a doubt. But by the grace of Father I hope to be more aware of the needs of individuals. I hope to have a vision that serves people, instead of demanding that people serve the Vision.

Jesus of the 2nd Chance

So I recently learned about this cool non-profit called People of the Second Chance. They're pretty much what they sound like, on the site it states -

"People of the Second Chance gives voice to a scandalous movement of radical grace in life and leadership. We challenge the common misconceptions about failure and success and stand with those who have hit rock bottom in their personal and professional lives. We are a community that is committed to stretch ourselves in the areas of relational forgiveness, personal transparency, and advocate for mercy over judgment."

Hmm, sounds a bit like this Jewish dude from way back in the day. I really love the idea of reaching out in grace and mercy to those who have failed, who have screwed up, who have hit the very bottom. I can't really think of much else that is more Christ-like.

I love that Jesus spent time with the sluts and whores, the disabled and lower-class. I love that he met people where they were, not demanding that they rise to a certain standard before he offered them truth, life, healing and restoration. I love that Jesus said -

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls."

I love Luke 22:32. I love that Jesus knew Peter would fail, that he would betray him. But yet even there he is praying for Peter beyond his failure, already looking past Peter's betrayal to his 2nd chance.

And I love that he's not surprised when I screw up or fall short. That even in the midst of my failures he's there working with me through the process. That with unfailing mercy he's brought me through my second chance . . . and third . . . and ninety-seventh . . .

One of the most shameful things in our culture is to fail at something. We use failures as warnings, to frighten people into working better or trying harder. We especially scorn those who have failed because of their own selfishness, laziness, or incompetence. But maybe, as those who have received a second chance, we are uniquely qualified to share with others that failure is not the end of the story. But it can be a beautiful beginning.

Hope Deferred . . . Then Misplaced . . . And Finally Abandoned

Saturday night I climbed into bed, tried to calm my racing mind, then finally woke up my wife and asked her to pray for me. I was trembling, drowning in anxiety and suffocated by feelings of dread. Apparently panic attacks really aren't that fun.

It's such a humbling experience to be so helpless. Reason and logic were not sufficient to overwhelm the crushing weight of anxiety. I could do nothing but ask my wife to hold me, and ask Father to rescue me. The next morning I woke with my mind calm, but questions as to why this happened.

It's true that work has been a little more stressful lately (compounded of course by the fact that I thoroughly hate it). With summer coming to an end I'm facing my usual "oh crap here comes months of winter" depression. Our lease on our apartment is coming to an end and they don't want to let us renew it for less than a year. I was hoping to be out of Syracuse in less than a year, but I really hate the thought of moving to a new apartment for the third time in four years.

But still, I think it may be something deeper. I think this may stem from a very damaging agreement that I made years ago. It may be the result of a subtle thought that has gradually grown into an actual life philosophy.

In college I majored in Economics and minored in Finance. I took a couple courses that were about "Financial Planning" (I even briefly considered this as a career). A financial planner is just someone who works with a person to help them be financially prepared for various life goals. They'll help the person with a variety of matters, including having money saved for retirement, college for their children, etc.

One of the first things you learn in Financial Planning classes is the idea of "managing expectations". This just means making sure your client's expectations are realistic. If your client expects a 30% return, but their investments return 20%, they'll be disappointed. If you help them realize that a 15% return would be excellent, then a 20% return would be a very nice surprise.

I had no trouble grasping this concept, because it was something I had been doing pretty much my entire life. I learned at a young age that reality rarely (if ever) lived up to my expectations. I learned that hoping for something was simply a precursor to disappointment. And so I taught myself to expect little, to plan for the worst, and then to be pleasantly surprised if something good happened.

Little did I realize that this approach to life was self-sabotaging at best. Little did I realize that all those verses in the Bible about hope were actually important.

I'm learning that living without hope isn't a way to defend myself from being disappointed. It's not even living. Yes, at times it seems that disappointment and heartache is inevitable. And maybe sometimes it is. But maybe hope isn't what sets me up for disappointment. Maybe hope is what brings me through it.

I'm going to try to let go of "hoping" for a specific desired outcome. I've been "hoping" to get out of New York. I've been "hoping" to find a job I don't hate. I've been "hoping" the Yankees win another World Series this year.

But what if my hope is not an outcome, but a person? What if my hope isn't for something to happen, but rather for someone to be intimately involved in whatever my future brings?

"Managing expectations" has been my code phrase for trading hope for a bleak resignation that life brings only disappointments. I'm trying to let go of managing my expectations. I'm even going to try to let go of all my expectations, other than the constant hope that Father will be with me through it all.

Because if Father is part of my future, how can I not have hope?

Will You Sing Me A Song?

This song has been one of my favorites, especially lately -

Other songs stuck in my head lately?

Beggars by Thrice

4th of July by Soundgarden

Why Go by Pearl Jam

Stuff Christians Like

Anybody else follow Jon Acuff's "Stuff Christians Like" blog? He does a "serious Wednesday" post each week. I thought the last two were awesome, especially the one on shame vs. share. Check 'em out:

http://stuffchristianslike.net/2010/07/cause-and-effect/

http://stuffchristianslike.net/2010/07/3388/

Grace Misunderstood

Romans 6:1 - What shall we say, then? Shall we go on sinning so that grace may increase?

I honestly always thought this was one of the stupidest verses in the Bible. As someone who grew up in the church, I was quite (painfully) aware of the horrific consequences of sin. I had learned that the hallmark of a Christian life was a noticeable lack of sin. I did my best to avoid publicly stumbling lest I "compromise my witness".

And so I always thought that in the above verse Paul was addressing a group of spectacularly ignorant Christians. Sin more?! What kind of idiotic idea is that?! Sin is the worst thing in the world!

To me, grace was simply what covered sin. I didn't understand the reasoning of this question. I thought more sin simply equaled just enough grace to cover it, so you ended up just where you started. I also feared a point where God would simply reach the end of his patience and wash his hands of me.

Sin more? No thank you.

But lately Father has tenderly and affectionately invited me to experience the riches of his grace. As he has opened my eyes to the incredible depths of his love, I'm learning that maybe that question isn't as stupid as I thought it was. Maybe I've just grossly undervalued grace.

I'm starting to think that grace isn't just something that covers up my bad stuff so I can go to heaven when I die. I think grace is the means by which I know Father. Grace is what ushers me in, what joins my heart to his. Grace is the space in which I find my truest God-given identity. It is where I come alive. It is where I know, and am known. Where I love, and am loved.

I recently heard a story by Wayne Jacobsen (I think he heard it from someone else). This helped me gain a better understanding of grace:

A clergyman died and went to heaven. He arrived at the pearly gates to find Peter there.

"Do I get in?" he asked Peter.

"I don't know," Peter responded. "How many points do you have?"

"Points?" the man asked. "I didn't know I needed points."

"Why yes, you need points."

"How many points do I need?"

"You need 100 points to get in," Peter told the man.

"Huh," the man responded. "Well, I worked in a soup kitchen for 20 years."

"That's not bad," Peter said. "I'll give you a point for that."

"A point per year?" the man inquired.

"No, just one point," Peter replied.

"Umm, well, I was a pastor for 20 years."

"Hmm," Peter mused. "Ok, I'll give you another point."

The man started wracking his brain for ideas. After a little while he realized that there was no way he could come up with enough points to get in. Just then, a businessman he knew from his time on earth approached the pearly gates.

The man walked past both of them, waved at Peter, and strolled straight through the gates.

"Wait . . . how many points did he have?" the man asked.

"Who, him?" Peter replied. "He's not playing this game."

Am I playing that game? Am I meticulously keeping score and demanding what I "deserve" accordingly? Or am I learning to live in a state of grace?

But what if this grace simply permission to sin as much as I want?

I heard Darin Hufford make an interesting observation on a recent podcast. He addressed this issue of "being loved by God no matter what means we have a license to sin". The idea that the unconditional nature of the Father's love will somehow lead to people thinking they can sin all they want since God loves them regardless.

Darin spoke of a wedding. The bride and groom commit to each other for life, promising to stand with each other for better or worse, in sickness and in health, etc. Never is that followed by the bride or groom immediately asking, "So I can cheat on you, right?" Why do we assume that embracing the Father's love and grace will lead to sin and self-indulgence? Are we not rescued by his love? Are we not freed by his grace?

I don't know if I really have the answer, but I do know that every time he wins me with love, sin is the farthest thing from my mind. Shall I sin more so that grace may increase? By no means. But I am developing a greater appreciation for this wonderful gift.

Who's the Enemy?

I've been working late since my boss has been on vacation. Yesterday afternoon after everyone else had gone home I got a phone call from someone who is . . . well, not my favorite person. He's incredibly difficult to deal with, snarky in tone and unpleasant in general. This is someone who doesn't really care about anything other than getting his own way, regardless of what it costs or who he has to manipulate. We had a difficult conversation regarding a particular matter, and I found it amazing how one day (or in this case, the rest of the week) can be so easily ruined by one person.

This morning, as I've been working more on this matter, I've found myself so angry with this person that I frankly wanted to punch them in the face. The sheer selfishness and disregard for others enraged me. For the past few hours I've struggled in the midst of this, trying to not be overwhelmed by bitterness and resentment.

It's so easy to take offense to being walked on, to having my competence questioned. It's so easy to dig in my heals, draw the line in the stand, and refuse to back down. It's so easy to fly to the defense of self, to the defense of my pride.

Father, give me eyes to see this person. Give me a heart of understanding, to look for ways to bring healing to brokenness. Father, you have loved me with love unfailing. Forgive me for failing so quickly to love others.

Matthew 5:3 (The Message) - You're blessed when you're at the end of your rope. With less of you there is more of God and his rule.

Escapism

This past weekend we went up to the Adirondacks. Becca's been under some work-related stress lately, but you could see a visible transformation in her countenance as we got closer and closer to Old Forge. She was arriving at a place that was safe, happy, and full of good memories.

I started to wonder if I had a "happy place" (no, not there you perverts). I tend to have an "escapist" mentality. I find refuge in books, or sometimes in movies, tv shows, or video games. Even in living vicariously through a sports team. I long for a world filled with meaning and significance, a world very different from this one filled with bureaucracies and petty people with overinflated egos.

I like to read about adventure, the more wild and fanciful the better. I like to read about love and sacrifice, good people fighting for what is good, fighting for justice. I like to read about broken people finding redemption. I like to read about goodness winning in the end, against all odds.

But isn't that what this reality is supposed to be about? Aren't we engaged in an epic struggle, the forces of light against the forces of darkness? Are we not involved in this clash between two kingdoms, a fight for the hearts of the lost? Have I not been entrusted to share with others a love that has existed before the beginning of Time? Is there not a King, and is he not wonderful and beautiful and glorious? Is he not kind and wise and generous? Has he not sacrificed everything to rescue those in captivity? And does he not invite us to share in this Life?

But how do I engage that reality while sitting in my cubicle, staring at my computer, doing whatever it is I do for 8+ hours a day? In a world filled with such petty and superficial concerns, how do I reorient myself to recognize the adventure and significance that surrounds me?

I planned on listening to my mp3 player this morning on the bus, so I didn't have a book with me. Of course, one of my earbuds broke, so I was forced to try to listen through only one "bud". I feel that's an apt metaphor for my life, listening with one ear to half of a song, trying to discern the meaning and rhythm. I watch life pass by, occasionally catching a glimpse of a deeper reality, but mostly just confused or distracted. How do I live?

No Turning Back

So here I sit with an e-mail typed up to several close friends, revealing the existence of this blog. My narcissism has reached an all-time high. I worry what others will think, but that's a constant state of being for me. Writing things down has always helped me process what I'm thinking/feeling at the moment. Really, this blog is just a series of random free-writes focused on whatever's been bouncing around my neurotic little brain.

Maybe there are some things that shouldn't be shared. I'm not sure if I know where that line is. Maybe this is a good way to find out. Of course, what will actually happen after all this hand-wringing is a total lack of interest by others. I'm good with that. Best case scenario may very well be that everyone will pretend this blog doesn't exist.

But I have this itch to write. And so write I shall. I'm not asking for other people to like it, or even to bother reading. I just feel like I need to put it out there. A tentative desire to be known.

Alright, I hit "Send". Let's see what happens.

So Perfect You Can't See Me

I was relegated to the realms of dorkiness from a young age. Go to the downstairs living room at my parents' house and look at photos of me at a young age. I had glasses when I was like seven. Not cool glasses, huge squarish glasses that covered half my face. I've also been a bibliophile from a young age, my bespectacled face always buried in one book or another. My mom worked evenings at a local library, some of my happiest memories were going to work with her and spending the whole night reading.

I was always generally average in height, scarily below-average in weight. I'm gangly, my thin limbs swinging around like intoxicated spider. I've always loved sports, but had to rely on my enthusiasm and hustle to make up for my lack of physical athleticism.

I played video games. Correction - I'm almost 27 and I still play video games. Religiously. I'm actually in an online football league with guys I met . . . on an online forum . . . about a college football video game. I am the epitome of nerd. I even have the grades to prove it (but strangely enough, no love for Star Trek).

Around the age of 15 I gave up the glasses for contacts. Amazingly enough, it still didn't make me cool. This summer I've made an effort to spend some sunny afternoons by the pool, hoping that this will be the first time . . . ever . . . that I'll avoid either being ghostly pale or having a ridiculous farmer's tan.

I'm also working out more, jogging a couple miles a day even in the 90 degree heat, forcing myself to use the Total Gym in our bedroom each day. With any luck my scrawny body will develop some sort of definition (why I think this will happen now after 27 years of looking like an emaciated vampire, I don't know).

Maybe I can avoid telling people that some of my favorite days are rainy afternoons curled up with a good book, or a marathon session of some video game. Maybe I can improve my verbal communication, project an air of confidence, and improve my wardrobe. Maybe I can even find a way to fix my thinning hair (seriously, I went from acne to baldness with nothing in between, FML).

But I find myself wondering about my motivations. Am I trying to prove something? Is it a delayed reaction to all those girls in high school (yes, even us homeschoolers occasionally saw a girl. Notice I said "saw", not "talked to") and college? I'm kinda doubting that's the reason. True, I'm still wracked by insecurity, but it helps that I ended up marrying a beautiful girl way out of my league.

No, I think it's something else. I've always been a dork, and more importantly a self-proclaimed dork. I took something I didn't like and made it my identity, something I could laugh at and hide behind. I thought I could take the sting out of it by making jokes. I did such a good job that a girl (only a friend of course) even incorporated the word "dork" into her nickname for me. If nothing else, it was another mask to hide behind.

Lately I've been trying to make my way through these layers of fake selves. I'm trying to be more honest, to be less of an image and more of a person. And so I'm letting go of the dork persona. And it's uncomfortable moving closer to the surface. It's awkward letting myself be seen. So I find another mask, an idealized self that is tan and in great shape.

The nice thing about these fake selves is that they make good buffers for rejection. If someone doesn't like the image I put out there, I still feel ok because they're not reacting to who I really am. I can be rejected without myself being rejected. But once I peel off these masks, once my real self is out there, rejection hurts. What do I tell myself then when people don't like me?

So hesitantly, I put pen to paper (or fingertip to keyboard), and peek out just a little. Next step - actually telling people I have a blog.

Breathing without gills

I rarely do or say anything without rehearsing it countless times in my head. For one reason, I learn my spontaneous reactions are often very stupid. I examine what I plan to say countless times from various angles, imagining the reactions of others. I even imagine what others may say in response, then prepare my various responses accordingly.

Even now I'm imagining someone reading this post, wrinkling their brow in disgust and confusion as they mutter, "Why can't you just be normal?"

Normal. What a concept. I wonder that myself, but it's rather akin to a fish asking a person stuck at the bottom of a lake, "Why don't you just breathe?"

And then the bubbly response, "I don't have &*$#@ gills! And why is a fish talking to me?! Stop yapping and get me out of these cement shoes!"

I kid, we don't really have Mafia in Syracuse. *Wink wink*

Where was I? Oh yes, being normal by an act of will.

I struggle with the concept of "tough love". Being told to "suck it up, get over it, pick yourself up" doesn't really seem to help. Being told, "I'm sorry this may sound harsh, but I'm just telling you the truth" sounds like a cop-out for dispensing answers without taking the time or trouble to help bear the burden. Where is "speaking the truth in love"?

Now, this could be perfect for others. Actually, this could be exactly what I need to hear. Maybe I just need a Red Forman to put a foot up my ass, spiritual or otherwise. Maybe I need to man up, stop whining, and just do better.

But as someone struggling with the idea of grace, trying to let go of my performance-based Christianity, this "get over it" mentality takes me back to a place I'd rather not be. Call it weakness, call it a lack of character, call it whatever you want. It's just me.

So . . . what now?

This isn't really what I envisioned when I made the leap and started a blog. I knew that writing stuff down was the best way for me to process whatever I'm going through. But so far my posts have just been a vomit of inner struggles and insecurities. I'm more comfortable being whimsical, goofy . . . superficial. I love to laugh. I love to make other people laugh.

Maybe that's part of why this has been rather dark and uncomfortable. This has been an outlet to share what I can't say in a face-to-face conversation. My interactions with others are carefully constructed and manipulated to be fun and shallow. I wear masks, bury myself beneath layers of joke-filled defense mechanisms, and project an image of easy-going and happy-go-lucky.

I watch from over my shoulder as people have a conversation with one of the fake me's. With narrowed eyes and a calculating mind I gauge their reactions to my words, my gestures, my facial expressions. I learn how to make other people chuckle with a barely appropriate quip, how to make others feel like I'm actually listening and caring as they pour our their worries and struggles.

I file this info away for later, so I can pull out the right combo of attributes to be a "good friend". Someone they can like. And in the midst of it all I loathe my fakeness, my blatant hypocrisy. I long to rip off the mask, to make a true connection with another person. I want to be weak and insufficient, but still loved and valued.

I care much too much about what other people think, this is one of the main reasons I work so hard to be "likable". I'm incredibly vain for someone whose appearance is so . . . meh. In the blink of an eye I swing from judging others through a lens of self-righteousness and pride to cowering in a dark corner under the weight of my own self-judgment and disdain.

But then in the midst of it all I hear the Father's gentle voice. So what do I do? I run from it! I try to drown it out with stupid and temporal concerns. I turn up the volume on the baseball game, stick in my ear buds from my mp3 player, or bury my nose in a book. Why do I turn away from what I need most? Especially when it's being offered for free.

In all honesty I am being a little over-dramatic. I do really like my friends, and most of the time my attempts to be a good friend are born out of appreciation for the wonderful people in my life. However, more often than is comfortable to admit, my motives are stained with self-interest and fear. It's a journey and a struggle to grow comfortable with myself, to be honest and authentic with others, to allow Father to speak to my heart. I hope that someday this blog will be full of posts about graciousness and love. But until then . . .

Conversation with Imaginary Jesus

This past Friday I was again lured to this worship/prayer/God's presence thing. Again I went with low expectations, not because of the event but rather all the baggage I'm carrying. I sat at an empty table while some contempervant music played. As the lyrics repeated a longing for being in love with Jesus, I thought about a lot of things, especially focusing on the changes in my life over the past seven or so years.

One of the ways I process things is to have imaginary conversations. This time I imagined Jesus sitting at the chair next to me. He looked around at the eight or so other people, each of them seemingly having an encounter with God.

"So whadda ya think?" he asked.

"I dunno," I shrugged. "I want to be in love you again. Like I think I used to be."

He reminded me of the first time I fell in love with a girl.

"What came first," he asked, "knowing her or falling in love with her?"

"Knowing her," I replied, realizing where this was going.

"You may have thought you were in love with me," he said. "And you may have actually been in love. But I'm not so sure it was with me. Now you're getting to know me. The falling in love will happen naturally."

Boy, that Imaginary Jesus is pretty wise. And now I'm pretty sure y'all understand the blog's title a little better.

Irony = Complaining about wasting time on a blog

The stupidest things piss me off. Writing a check, for example. It's not the outflow of money that bothers me, it's the actual act of having to write a check. For freak's sake, is this not 2010?!? Why is there any place at all that still requires this antiquated method of payment? What's next, shillings?!?! Wampum???

Although I suppose Judas's betrayal and subsequent hanging would have lost some of its drama if the 30 pieces of silver were replaced by 30 e-pieces of silver deposited into his PayPal account.

To me, the biggest sin is wasted time. Which is rather odd, because wasting time is also my favorite hobby. I guess it depends on whether or not it's on MY terms. Scanning Facebook or visiting my favorite college football video game forum? Good wasting. Sitting in traffic on 690 because of Syracuse's NEVER-ENDING construction or having to do something over at work because someone else failed to communicate well? Bad wasting.

And why am I so constantly aware of the passing of time? Is it my inherent sense of my own mortality and limited time on earth? Nah, that sounds way too deep. It's probably just because I'm so selfish. I want to spend MY time doing thing I want to do. Really, I define time-wasting as anything that keeps me from doing something that makes me happy.

*Taps finger, looks at clock, stares at screen*

Oh well, I don't really have any more to say. I suppose I should try to change? *Shrug* Guess I'll go run a couple errands now (I would count that as wasted time but since I'm going to the library it's ME time).

I Need . . .

I really need to get it together.

I need to be on top of things.

I need to manage my time better.

I need to clean off my desk at home, and contribute more toward keeping the apartment clean.

I need to be a more productive employee.

I need to do make better meals for myself and stop relying on oatmeal, cereal, and PB&J for dinner.

I need to be more fiscally responsible.

I need to be more generous with my time and money.

I need to grow up, to be a freaking adult.

I need to get over myself, to let go of all my stupid hang-ups.

I need to be a better, more attentive husband.

I need to be a more faithful friend.

I need to not be so angry when the Yankees lose.

I need to stop wasting so much time on the internet.

I need to be a better son, and write more e-mails to my mom.

I need to step up and be a good older brother.

I need to stop making the same stupid mistakes over and over again.

And so I bring these needs to Father and expect his help. After all, he wants me to be a better person, right? Surely he'll give me the strength to improve in all the areas I'm failing so horribly. But it seems he always takes me somewhere else -

The need to be assured of the Father's affection.

The need to know a God who smiles, and even laughs.

The need to know forgiveness, and mercy that cleanses me to the core.

The need to experience grace amidst my failures. Daily.

And, most importantly, the need to let the process work. To let life and relationship replace 10 easy steps to self-improvement. To let go of my timeline, my agenda, my goals, my control.

Are those other needs important? I think they are. I think Father cares about them too. But I'm wondering if maybe it's possible to become much more efficient and effective in what I do, but still miss the point. Maybe it's not so much about what I am, as who I am. Maybe the process works from the inside out.

And, of course, maybe I'm talking out my ass.

Who am I?

I am

A work in progress

A collection of contradictions

Cognitive dissonance personified

Aching to express

Stifled by halting tongue

Trembling hands

I am

A little better

And sometimes worse

A little kinder

Yet so very selfish

A softening heart

A repentant soul

A troubled mind

I am

A hesitant child

A blind follower

Tentatively reaching out my hand

Afraid of touching nothing

I am

A little slow on the uptake

The tryer of patience

Stumbling and mumbling

Grieving and grasping

Learning to be loved

Maybe to love

I'd like a side of extra narcissism please

So everything is about me. Surely you've figured that out by now. What's wonderful is that I am this truly amazing blend of paranoia and narcissism. I fear that others don't like me. That they tolerate me. That they see through this flimsy facade to the ugliness underneath.

Since everything is about me, I imagine that others are always thinking and talking about me. Since I'm paranoid, I believe it's all negative. So now my life is a series of reactions to imagined negative thoughts about me. Wow, that's healthy.

No joke, when people in the office start whispering I immediately have a sinking feeling in my stomach. "Oh no, what did I screw up? What did I do wrong now? How much trouble am I in?"

And it's never about me. None of my co-workers have ever been anything less than kind and gracious and friendly. I've been blessed with an amazing boss. But still, that murky fears always lurks just beneath the surface.

On a somewhat related note, I've been struggling for years with the idea of being loved by God. Lately I've felt like a rebellious child, always pushing a little further to see if he still loves me. I do something just a little more selfish, a little more indulgent, a little more stupid. Does he still love me now? How ugly do I have to make myself before he stops?

In the past, when I had screwed up, I always found myself running from God. This has a lot to do with my past perception of who he is. Lately, even after I've just finished doing something incredibly stupid, I've dared to take a look over my shoulder. Just to see his reaction.

Each time, I've been disarmed by his love. Each time, I've seen nothing but eyes full of kindness and arms reaching out in affection. Each time, he's affirmed that I cannot remove or disqualify myself from being loved by him. Each time, my heart is won to him.

I'm getting tired of pushing the envelope. I'm still not convinced he always loves me, but I'm quickly running out of excuses to doubt his love. I don't deserve it, I've made my peace with that. But somehow, and I don't understand this, his love has nothing to do with how well I've performed. I'm slowly becoming okay with that.

Amazing

So have I found your secret weak spot baby?

Can you pretend I'm amazing?

I can pretend I'm amazing

Instead of what we both know . . .

Emotions? WTF mate?

A busy and somewhat emotionally charged weekend continued today. It seems I'm gathering a new appreciation for the wonderful friends in my life. Yesterday I came across something from an old friend that really helped redeem a crappy day/week/month. Today I went to a roller derby bout (pretty freakin' awesome btw) and got to hang out with some good friends. And in the midst of it all I even got to talk on the phone to my best friend for a bit.

Yes, I'm almost 27 and I still have a best friend. A BFF or whatever kids these days call it. It's one of those amazing friendships where even though life gets in the way and we don't connect for months at a time . . . as soon as we see each other it's like we were never apart. He's closer to me than a brother and yet again I feel guilty about doing such a poor job of keeping in touch.

But anyway, I feel more vulnerable than I have in months (probably years). It's like my defenses are slowly destroyed by the wonderful times I've spent just being with people I love and who actually love me. For much of the past 30 hours or so I've felt on the edge of tears. Maybe it's just that time of month (yes, I made a PMS joke, live with it).

I find myself slowly becoming more invested in the lives of others. Recently, other friends finally closed on a house after a long, difficult process. I'm so happy for them! Yes, I know, chastise me as you will, but that's rare for me. Not that I'm necessarily mean or uncaring toward others. But I had mistakenly believed that it was wise to keep from caring too much. The way I protected my heart was to remove it far away from possible disappointments or let-downs.

For me, the hardest part of having close friendships is knowing that one day they probably won't be there. Or at least they won't be the same. People grow, get married, have kids, move to other cities. We say we'll talk, write, e-mail, keep in touch. And it's probably unfair to have those expectations. But we do it anyway.

I have a hard time letting go. I want to be bestest friends with everyone forever! Maybe I'm finally starting to learn that their are seasons in life, and sometimes some friends are only close for that season. And maybe I need to learn to be able to say "I have truly loved and valued our time together. I really hope to see you again."

It's too late, I'm rambling. I always do this. Then I read what I wrote the next day and hate it. I always seem to hate my past selves. But hey, that's a depressing rant for another day.

Blog Title

First of all, because I'm paranoid, I want to clear up something from the last post. I have no problem whatsoever with that guy from the worship service. I hope it was clear that I didn't actually dislike him, it was simply that situation brought back some difficult memories. That's all.

So in case anyone was wondering about the blog title, I've been on a bit of a Staind kick lately. So I decided to just steal one of their song titles. I'm actually a little surprised that I didn't use a Blue October song instead, like Conversations via Radio or X Amount of Words. But anyhow, here are the lyrics for your reading pleasure:

Are you afraid, afraid of the truth
In the mirror staring back at you
The image is cracked, but so it the view here
And the strength of a tree begins in the roots
That I tend to bury into to you
At least now the storm can't blow me away

So crawl inside my head with me
I'll show you how it feels to be
To blame like me

Should I be afraid of this face that I see
In the mirror staring back at me
So cold were the days when I listened to you
And you say that I'm weak so show me the proof
Cause I still exist in spite of you
But I won't compete with you everyday

So crawl inside my head with me
I'll show you how it feels to be
To blame like me

Schizophrenic conversations that
I'm always having with myself
I hear these voices in my head competing
Maybe I could use a little help
I still have Schizophrenic conversations

When there's no one else around to hear
I long for solitude and peace within me
Void of all the anger and the fear

So crawl inside my head with me
I'll show you how it feels to be
Fucked up like me

I'll show you how it feels to be
To blame like me
Ashamed like me

Deja Vu

So I found myself attending a worship night at a local church tonight. Our Friday night group decided to make a trip there, and I mindlessly followed along. I figured, "Hey, what's the worst that could happen? Maybe I'll finally enjoy worship time again."

On the occasions that I have attended a church service lately, I find myself asking more questions about why we do what we do than actually participating. I think it's just part of the transition I'm in. But anyway, I digress.

Shortly after arriving at the church (the first of my group, btw, gotta love awkward settings), I quickly picked out the guy who was more or less "leading" it (not the lead singer, more of the MC). I instinctually didn't like him very much. It's ok, I don't like most people.

Anyway, it took me a while, but I finally figured out why I didn't care for him. He was me. Or at least, the me I used to be. Seven-years-ago me. Every single word this guy said, I could so easily picture myself saying. It was flat out eerie.

Maybe some of you are only familiar with my current bitter/cynical personality. Believe it or not, back in late high school and college, I was "on fire". I was one of those youths that pastors and church leaders love to hang their hat on. "You see," they'd say, "this is a young man who loves Jesus. He's passionate about God."

And I would do it all. I was a leader of my college's Christian club, leading bible studies and prayer times. I even began a prayer meeting at my local church (which I attended faithfully). If there was a worship night somewhere in a 20 mile radius where they advertised being "desperate for Jesus" I'd be there!

Each time, I thought, "This time it will be different. This time I'll truly encounter God's presence. This time I'll be changed for good. And after this wonderful experience, my inside will finally match the beautiful exterior I've projected to everyone. I finally won't feel like a fraud."

I worked the system. I would sing, shout, jump, dance, kneel, and fall on my face in front of the altar weeping. I'd share God's word, teach lessons, pray for others, pray for the campus, pray for the city, and call down God's glory. I did it all.

And then a few years later I was in my apartment in Liverpool, on a mattress on the floor, curled up in a ball and begging God to take me home. Please, just let me leave this life. I'm so fucking tired. I had given everything, and I had nothing left. I was empty, a broken confused shell. None of it had worked.

God never showed up.

In the midst of this worship service tonight, as I sat in a padded pew listening to songs that were different from what we sang but so very much the same, God took me back to that time. An anger I didn't realize I had found release, and I vented my frustrations to God. At God.

And I cried a little. God restored me a little. I let some of that crap go. And you know what the funny thing is? Know what I finally realized? Amidst all my desperation for an encounter with God back then? In the middle of all my longing and yearning and reaching and grasping? As I cried out to see his face and touch him and know him?

He was already there.

As I stretched my arms out to heaven begging him to come, he was sitting right there next to me. The last place I ever thought to look. There was no magic formula. I couldn't manipulate God into showing up. He was already there, and I don't think it was because I impressed him with my passion or commitment. He was there because he actually wanted to be with me. I'm his kid. He likes me.

Huh.

Probably my biggest regret from that time is my impact on other people. Hopefully most saw through the charade. For those that didn't, for those who were convinced that they must be more passionate like I was, I'd like to apologize.

I meant well.

I mean, c'mon, is there a more damning indictment? I meant well. I had good intentions. My heart was in the right place. But that doesn't change the fact that I tried to convince people that just need to try harder, worship longer, pray louder, and consecrate better. And for their efforts I promised them an encounter with God.

The thing is, I really did mean well. I really thought that was what you needed to do. And in all that mess, I completely missed God sitting right there next to me. Right next to all of us.

Now I'm older. A bit more cynical. But I realized something else tonight. I don't want to stay where I am. I don't want to view this as something that's behind or beneath me. I'm truly looking forward to the day that I can go to a worship service and actually stand there and just love on the God that loves me. Not to twist his arm into showing up exactly how I want him to, just because I'm starting to understand the way he loves me.

I'm looking forward to that.