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).