I know some would argue that the movie "Notorious," portraying the life of the gangster rapper Notorious B.I.G., can hardly be called an artistic or profound film. Whatever criticisms one might have about it, I believe it illustrates one thing well: Entertainment, for the most part, is not real life.
When one creates or produces something, whether it be a painting, song, movie, book, etc, it falls along a continuum of how accurately it reflects reality (among other things). On one extreme, the piece of work may be extremely representative of realities. I believe "Slumdog Millionaire," although entertaining, was a powerful expression of an ugly reality. On the other extreme are works that have very little intent on anything other than pure sensory stimulation (not that it is necessarily a bad thing.)
However, something terribly wrong happens when one creates a piece of work for the purpose of pure entertainment with little grounding in reality, but the observers mistake it as an expression of how things are or should be. T.I.'s song "Dead and Gone" pinpoints the possible negative influence of Hiphop on black urban culture. The movie "Notorious" illustrated the contrast between the glorified versions of what he rapped about (women, money, drugs) versus the reality of his life, which was the attempt to manifest much of what he rapped about.
The truth is, given the ability to create, we are able to either draw out and paint deeper realities beyond what we see, hear, smell, taste or touch, or we can create that which does not exist. This power of imagination is potent. It has the potential to lift our eyes and spirit, and to call us forward through difficulty and oppression. Think of the role music, stories and oration played in historical struggles like the Civil Rights movement or various revolutions in the world. Think of the way narratives are used to guide our behavior and grant meaning to life (eg the Christian narrative).
However, the ability to paint that which does not exist carries a dangerous side. If we are not keen towards the effects of such a power, it may evolve from the creation of our hands into a beast beyond our control. When one attempts to live another's fake creation, the expected results seldom happen, while plenty of unintended realities do not cease. Going back to the illustration of "Notorious," a verbal war between two rappers consumed not only their lives but fostered such animosity between East and West coasts, all because they created that which did not exist, and listeners believed it as real. The danger is compounded when this created image draws its strength from real human needs, desires, emotions, or realities. They resemble realities, but in essence are mythologies merely clothed with aspects of the what we recognize within ourselves and the environment around us.
This has much subtler implications. A friend of mine, after being told that he was a crappy boyfriend, was encouraged to watch some chick flicks by his ex to learn how to be a better one. I cringed at that idea, because such films, although entertaining, are bastardizations of reality. With every cut, switch of scene, or panning of the camera, reality is edited out. Time is condensed. Ugliness is omitted. It is one person creating that which does not exist for the purpose of entertainment and money, while the masses consume these fabricated standards or ideas and internalize them as expected realities.
If such things seem harmless, think of it in terms of pornography. Pornography itself portrays two people having sex, a very normal phenomenon. However, it does three things. First, it grounds itself in very real physical desires (which is why it sells). Second, it appears real, since two very real people with arms and legs and other such plumbing are interacting in ways known to be possible. But most importantly, it takes that reality and creates something that is isolated, glamorized, beautified, and altogether rather fake. And then consumers, seeking out their needs, end up internalizing the performance or "beauty" expectations they see on a screen. Simply replace the physical with the emotional, and you will see why that bastard Mr. Darcy is a terrible human being.
So, my dear friend, I suggest you do not take your ex's advice, and find someone who glories in the sometimes gritty and ugly realities of commitment and love, versus someone who thinks the world would be better if men pretended they were in a chick flick.
Showing posts with label Love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Love. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Sunday, December 14, 2008
We'll Shake the Nightmare Free
In a non-Gnostic, purely illustrative way, I think people function with three layers. Superficially, our skin is what we show to the world. It’s this outer garment we cake with makeup and drape with clothes. We carry it when we walk and present it as we wish to be viewed. It is the pride of our youth, and what the simplest forms of beauty call home. But beneath it is our flesh and bones… the blood and truth of our thoughts and emotions. Our skin heals, albeit with scars, but our sinews and tendons are not so easily mended, leaving us with Jacob’s limp that asserts itself every step of the way. It is our flesh and bones that move our feet down a path, and joints and ligaments that bend our fingers in creation or destruction. Being the substance of who we are, there is no ignoring its depth. It's cut with the jagged blade of the fall, and woven together with generational sin. It’s patched with all the wrongs done to us and laced with all the wrongs we have done to others. It is, for most people, the driving winds and currents propelling our lives, in light of or in spite of our awareness. Our flesh and blood is what we attempt to escape from at the edge of sleep, what haunts our dreams in the early hours of morning, and the invasive sharp that pries our eyes awake like light from slotted blinds.
But even further beneath the rolling tumult that animates our breath lays a dark core of stillness… the center of who we are and what we truly know. In those rare moments when our flesh and blood are at ease and our skin is translucent, our soul, what the ancient Jews would call “Nephesh,” can be heard whispering its steadiness and truth.
More eternal than the broken bones and pain of bruises, my nephesh simply says, “Yes, He is worth it. His Kingdom is worth it. Greater than your past and past your future, It is worth it.” Like strings on a sitar, my nephesh resonates when it hears the vibrations of grace. It quells my shaking bones long enough for the flesh to ponder an existence beyond itself, beyond the idolatry of its own hands and mind, beyond the myopic dreams turned sour… long enough to hope that deep in my marrow, I will one day know the truth my nephesh claims.
It will innervate my tissue, forcing out the angry red poison I have known all my life. Flowing through my veins, redeeming all it gives breath to, it will not heed the threat of pain. No longer will my passions be crooked or my heart be broke. No longer will the oscillating waves throb behind my eyes or pummel my mind… my flesh and bone will be moved by the depths of what my nephesh knows. My soul and flesh and skin will align and be an unruly mustang no longer, but with its head bowed low, carry the Lord like humility once did.
But even further beneath the rolling tumult that animates our breath lays a dark core of stillness… the center of who we are and what we truly know. In those rare moments when our flesh and blood are at ease and our skin is translucent, our soul, what the ancient Jews would call “Nephesh,” can be heard whispering its steadiness and truth.
More eternal than the broken bones and pain of bruises, my nephesh simply says, “Yes, He is worth it. His Kingdom is worth it. Greater than your past and past your future, It is worth it.” Like strings on a sitar, my nephesh resonates when it hears the vibrations of grace. It quells my shaking bones long enough for the flesh to ponder an existence beyond itself, beyond the idolatry of its own hands and mind, beyond the myopic dreams turned sour… long enough to hope that deep in my marrow, I will one day know the truth my nephesh claims.
It will innervate my tissue, forcing out the angry red poison I have known all my life. Flowing through my veins, redeeming all it gives breath to, it will not heed the threat of pain. No longer will my passions be crooked or my heart be broke. No longer will the oscillating waves throb behind my eyes or pummel my mind… my flesh and bone will be moved by the depths of what my nephesh knows. My soul and flesh and skin will align and be an unruly mustang no longer, but with its head bowed low, carry the Lord like humility once did.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Innocuously Insidious
It seems innocuous enough, even laudably romantic, to say that despite others’ opinions, one sees glimpses of some greater beauty in another person. It would make (and probably has made) the skeleton plot of many movies… the person who is patient and suffers all sorts of abuse in the process of bringing out that greater character in the other. After all their hard work and persistence, their faith, hope, love, and an undying belief in never giving up, the other character’s true selves are able to flourish, and everything ends happily ever after.
Such stories make us sigh wistfully, echoing within us the hopes that perseverance pays off, that ugliness succumbs to beauty, that pain will be redeemed, and that love conquers all. Each of those things, in their purest forms, are true in their deepest sense and can be found at the core of our Christian story. Those things are true of our Father and displayed in his son. Even today, we catch reaffirmations of them through his spirit in our lives.
But I wonder what happens when each of those good truths are slightly distorted as we place ourselves at the center of those statements. We try to become the ones who redeem pain. We try to conquer all with our version of love. We want to be the ones to bring out the beauty in others, whether or not it is our rightful place to do so. All the while, we see the entire situation with our convoluted and cracked lenses. We tell ourselves that we are living the Gospel story, loving our neighbors as ourselves, when in fact it is our neediness, brokenness and emptiness that is trying to play God. We want to be the beneficiaries of our own “unconditional” love. We want to be the redeemers of our own pain that we created, and the one who plants, waters, grows and reaps seeds in the lives of others. It is not the Lord’s work in their lives that we are after, but *our* version of the Lord’s work according to *our* ideas of who we want them to be, which inevitably revolve around ourselves. It is our own corruption reading itself into a narrative that desires to be true.
So in the end, though it seems innocuous, we may be playing into the most insidious of sins by stringing together our distorted version of those truths. Namely, we cast ourselves as the role of God, even as we attempt to “love.” Sometime ago, in speaking of relationships, Bonhoeffer says that Christ must mediate our relationships. If Christ bids us to speak or act in love, we speak or act. If Christ bids us to stay silent and still, we rest and hold our tongues. If he calls us to greet and embrace, we do so in his name. But he may also call us to bid adieu and depart, and that too is in his name. Therefore, tenacity and persistence are only values so long as they are in Christ and his will. Love through actions is only God’s love so long as he calls for it. Since in him, there is a season for everything, and love in obedience, even if it is in silence, is far truer to his purposes than a seemingly innocuous romantic story.
Such stories make us sigh wistfully, echoing within us the hopes that perseverance pays off, that ugliness succumbs to beauty, that pain will be redeemed, and that love conquers all. Each of those things, in their purest forms, are true in their deepest sense and can be found at the core of our Christian story. Those things are true of our Father and displayed in his son. Even today, we catch reaffirmations of them through his spirit in our lives.
But I wonder what happens when each of those good truths are slightly distorted as we place ourselves at the center of those statements. We try to become the ones who redeem pain. We try to conquer all with our version of love. We want to be the ones to bring out the beauty in others, whether or not it is our rightful place to do so. All the while, we see the entire situation with our convoluted and cracked lenses. We tell ourselves that we are living the Gospel story, loving our neighbors as ourselves, when in fact it is our neediness, brokenness and emptiness that is trying to play God. We want to be the beneficiaries of our own “unconditional” love. We want to be the redeemers of our own pain that we created, and the one who plants, waters, grows and reaps seeds in the lives of others. It is not the Lord’s work in their lives that we are after, but *our* version of the Lord’s work according to *our* ideas of who we want them to be, which inevitably revolve around ourselves. It is our own corruption reading itself into a narrative that desires to be true.
So in the end, though it seems innocuous, we may be playing into the most insidious of sins by stringing together our distorted version of those truths. Namely, we cast ourselves as the role of God, even as we attempt to “love.” Sometime ago, in speaking of relationships, Bonhoeffer says that Christ must mediate our relationships. If Christ bids us to speak or act in love, we speak or act. If Christ bids us to stay silent and still, we rest and hold our tongues. If he calls us to greet and embrace, we do so in his name. But he may also call us to bid adieu and depart, and that too is in his name. Therefore, tenacity and persistence are only values so long as they are in Christ and his will. Love through actions is only God’s love so long as he calls for it. Since in him, there is a season for everything, and love in obedience, even if it is in silence, is far truer to his purposes than a seemingly innocuous romantic story.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Red Ink Black Ink
Don’t you sometimes wish that you could balance memories like a checkbook? Red ink and black ink, positives and negatives. For every crappy one you have, a positive one of equal strength would cancel it out, putting you at a net of 0. Having a bad day? No worries, go make some good memories with friends and cash them in. Plan on having a rough year? Stash the laughs up now, or dig yourself out later. But instead of being equal parts of sour vs. sweet, we weigh lead against helium and blow our hot air in hopes that we live more than a zero sum game. Instead, we are left with the full spectrum of our broken selves and our strange functioning 3lb glob of neural connections, keen to fire at the most innocuous of triggers, resigned to survive on a word that simply says, "This way that it is, it is good."
So it is, the difference between what we wish and what is real… trusting, praying, hoping that Grace is a reality redeeming the red, ceasing our striving, granting us reprieve, and putting us over the top.
So it is, the difference between what we wish and what is real… trusting, praying, hoping that Grace is a reality redeeming the red, ceasing our striving, granting us reprieve, and putting us over the top.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Remember
[In the act of writing, I hope to bring about that which I lack. In transcribing my thoughts from jumbled electrochemical activity to the English language, I want to give animation and memory to the realities which do not yet exist, and in some way, usher it in.]
Faith, hope, and love.
We are not patient, our eyes are dim, our minds are slow, and our imaginations dull. We can build only so many stairs to climb in our search for leverage over the landscape of our experiences. God knew that our statures are short, our memories vapid and adulterous, prone to wander and in league with the Accuser. We distort our realities and squeeze our pasts through the mold of our ever-vacillating emotions. When set under pressure and fire, our self-serving versions of faithfulness evaporate to leave the ugly stains of bitterness and blame.
"Remember. Remember. Remember my faithfulness, even if you do not feel it now. Remember my healing, my goodness, my presence and my love, even in the midst of darkness and loneliness. Remember, not your uncertainties and selective memories, interpretations or assumptions, but remember me, my Kingdom and my righteousness."
Hope. A biblical hope in the person of God and His character. When all our attempts to usher in the New lay futile and hollow under the spotlight of silence, there can be but one virtue that holds the weight of being. Hope becomes the quintessential anchor of our hearts, especially when our most sincere efforts at love and faithfulness are not enough.
Faith, hope, and love.
We are not patient, our eyes are dim, our minds are slow, and our imaginations dull. We can build only so many stairs to climb in our search for leverage over the landscape of our experiences. God knew that our statures are short, our memories vapid and adulterous, prone to wander and in league with the Accuser. We distort our realities and squeeze our pasts through the mold of our ever-vacillating emotions. When set under pressure and fire, our self-serving versions of faithfulness evaporate to leave the ugly stains of bitterness and blame.
"Remember. Remember. Remember my faithfulness, even if you do not feel it now. Remember my healing, my goodness, my presence and my love, even in the midst of darkness and loneliness. Remember, not your uncertainties and selective memories, interpretations or assumptions, but remember me, my Kingdom and my righteousness."
Hope. A biblical hope in the person of God and His character. When all our attempts to usher in the New lay futile and hollow under the spotlight of silence, there can be but one virtue that holds the weight of being. Hope becomes the quintessential anchor of our hearts, especially when our most sincere efforts at love and faithfulness are not enough.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Orthodoxy: Coming to a Church Near You!
As much as I love critique and deconstructionism, and have an inherent distrust of the powers that be, I have to remember love and hope in a world that desperately needs it. It might be true that there are lots of legitimate things to criticize about western mainstream Evangelical Christianity. We’re so busy pointing fingers at other people, at post modernism, at evolution, at those baby killers, liberals and homosexuals that I’ve felt the need to point the fingers back at ourselves for all the things we do wrong according to our own standards. I get excited when I hear someone thoughtfully articulate, attempt to explain, and critique our own actions and beliefs in a theological and historical context without abjuring the possibility that we could actually be wrong, as opposed to simply propping up platitudes to legitimize what exists. I shake my head and agree with the “enemies” when their observations about us are keener than our own. I hear stories of our churches, our sanctuaries and lighthouses, and am hardly surprised when people don’t want anything to do with us. It’s a much needed in-house sweep and challenge when an entire guard of thoughtful, prayerful and contemplative brothers and sisters are standing up to say that all is not right within the family.
And perhaps it is true; certain things must be torn down before they can be replaced or rebuilt. How do we preach a gospel we ourselves fail to grasp? How can we be transformed holistically when dualism, individualism, and anti-intellectualism are the lenses through which we view the world?
But the difficulty, for me at least, is how one does the critiquing not only in a way that is humble, but is done in faith, filled with love and gives hope. For me, there is an arrogance that I pray will be removed with intentionality and age. There is an inexperience that presents my convictions as untested and hollow, and a naivety that forgets the inevitable suffering of prophets. However, beneath it all is a desire to see God’s kingdom lived out as it should, in my own life, in the life of His saints, and in all of creation.
Orthodoxy (correct belief), I think, is a prerequisite for orthopraxy (correct practice). I wonder if it is possible to have all the faith, hope, and love in the world and be useless, even doing damage, without orthodoxy. I don’t know. Perhaps it’s possible, as I believe much has done as a fervent church with stray beliefs (it always amazes me at how God redeems things). But what I do know is that orthodoxy that does not manifest itself in faith, hope and love is no orthodoxy at all. As I strive to see the world as God sees it and desire to see the Gospel alive in today’s world and context, orthodoxy needs to be inseparably wed with faith, hope and love, as inseparable as our “souls” are to our bodies, even as inseparable as Christ is with His church.
And perhaps it is true; certain things must be torn down before they can be replaced or rebuilt. How do we preach a gospel we ourselves fail to grasp? How can we be transformed holistically when dualism, individualism, and anti-intellectualism are the lenses through which we view the world?
But the difficulty, for me at least, is how one does the critiquing not only in a way that is humble, but is done in faith, filled with love and gives hope. For me, there is an arrogance that I pray will be removed with intentionality and age. There is an inexperience that presents my convictions as untested and hollow, and a naivety that forgets the inevitable suffering of prophets. However, beneath it all is a desire to see God’s kingdom lived out as it should, in my own life, in the life of His saints, and in all of creation.
Orthodoxy (correct belief), I think, is a prerequisite for orthopraxy (correct practice). I wonder if it is possible to have all the faith, hope, and love in the world and be useless, even doing damage, without orthodoxy. I don’t know. Perhaps it’s possible, as I believe much has done as a fervent church with stray beliefs (it always amazes me at how God redeems things). But what I do know is that orthodoxy that does not manifest itself in faith, hope and love is no orthodoxy at all. As I strive to see the world as God sees it and desire to see the Gospel alive in today’s world and context, orthodoxy needs to be inseparably wed with faith, hope and love, as inseparable as our “souls” are to our bodies, even as inseparable as Christ is with His church.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Sing to Our Hearts' Discontents
More than writing or a melody, I want infusion.
More than currents of knowledge to flashes of light, I seek life.
More than busyness to forge my path, I crave shalom.
More than novelty to stoke my fervor, I desire grace.
More than you could ever give, I need love.
More than currents of knowledge to flashes of light, I seek life.
More than busyness to forge my path, I crave shalom.
More than novelty to stoke my fervor, I desire grace.
More than you could ever give, I need love.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Ponderings on the Trail
I believe love, by definition, is an act of vulnerability. In essence, love is taking all the frailty, brokenness, goodness, and darkness out of our own hands and placing it in the hands of another, giving them access to the core of our very personhood. In giving them this access, you have also given them an extraordinary amount of power in your life, to discover places that others cannot reach and to speak into the depths of your being. However, with this vulnerability comes the potential of an equally deep damage that comes when those whom you have given yourself to swing their words a bit too carelessly or tread a bit too roughly. In the narrow and hidden corridors of flesh that wind about in the heart, the scars etched in the walls remain long after the damage is done.
When we say that we love God, we are allowing Him into the darkest catacombs that support the structures and facades we show the world. In faith and vulnerability, we allow Light to scatter the darkness in ourselves, and give Him the authority and power to tear down and rebuild as He sees fit, oftentimes causing the buildings on the surface to come crumbling down. The vulnerability of loving God is felt in every intentional cut of His refining blade, as well as the words He speaks of life and restoration.
In truly loving someone else, we are also giving them the same access into our depths. Oftentimes, the Spirit guides people into those corridors to act on His behalf, whether they know it or not. At times, they are the ones who do the breaking down in His name, are the voice to His words, and His arms that embrace.
Bonhoeffer says that true love for a person is always first and foremost mediated by and through Christ. He says that it is easy for us to believe our love for a person is genuine when in fact it is really a distorted version that is tainted with our own brokenness and neediness. Because of the oftentimes more tangible and immediate results of our limited human love, what we give is often laced with subtle forms of manipulation, and reflects our insecurities more than the love given by God.
Nouwen reminds us that we are unable to truly love others freely until we allow ourselves to be loved by God. Until we internalize the unchanging truth of our status as beloved children of God, we will continue to look for the approval and affirmation of others when they cannot ultimately provide it. Our actions will not come from a desire to bless or to love, but will arise from the deep insecurities that come from the unhealed dark places in our being.
We cannot give to others that which we have not received. We cannot learn to love properly unless we accept the love from God. It is hard for us to be healers if we have not known hurt and healing. Until we embrace ourselves in the name and by the grace of the Lord, it will be difficult for us to embrace a friend, let alone a stranger or an enemy. “Those who fall upon the Rock will be shattered, but those whom the Rock falls upon will be crushed (Matt 21:44).” As we are shattered, may He become both the new bedrock and the new architect, and may our attempts to love others be empowered by and submitted to Him.
When we say that we love God, we are allowing Him into the darkest catacombs that support the structures and facades we show the world. In faith and vulnerability, we allow Light to scatter the darkness in ourselves, and give Him the authority and power to tear down and rebuild as He sees fit, oftentimes causing the buildings on the surface to come crumbling down. The vulnerability of loving God is felt in every intentional cut of His refining blade, as well as the words He speaks of life and restoration.
In truly loving someone else, we are also giving them the same access into our depths. Oftentimes, the Spirit guides people into those corridors to act on His behalf, whether they know it or not. At times, they are the ones who do the breaking down in His name, are the voice to His words, and His arms that embrace.
Bonhoeffer says that true love for a person is always first and foremost mediated by and through Christ. He says that it is easy for us to believe our love for a person is genuine when in fact it is really a distorted version that is tainted with our own brokenness and neediness. Because of the oftentimes more tangible and immediate results of our limited human love, what we give is often laced with subtle forms of manipulation, and reflects our insecurities more than the love given by God.
Nouwen reminds us that we are unable to truly love others freely until we allow ourselves to be loved by God. Until we internalize the unchanging truth of our status as beloved children of God, we will continue to look for the approval and affirmation of others when they cannot ultimately provide it. Our actions will not come from a desire to bless or to love, but will arise from the deep insecurities that come from the unhealed dark places in our being.
We cannot give to others that which we have not received. We cannot learn to love properly unless we accept the love from God. It is hard for us to be healers if we have not known hurt and healing. Until we embrace ourselves in the name and by the grace of the Lord, it will be difficult for us to embrace a friend, let alone a stranger or an enemy. “Those who fall upon the Rock will be shattered, but those whom the Rock falls upon will be crushed (Matt 21:44).” As we are shattered, may He become both the new bedrock and the new architect, and may our attempts to love others be empowered by and submitted to Him.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Redemption of Place
In my town, there is a small dirt road that leads into creeks coming in from the bay. In an open expanse and solitude rare for suburbia, one can look across the bay and see the glowing lights of Atlantic City reminding me, “all that glitters is not gold.” Here, throughout high school, I’ve written countless stanzas of angsty teen poetry and learned the freedom of cursing at God. When I come back “home” to New Jersey, this is still my haven of solitude, a place that simultaneously accepts my mourning and reminds me of God’s faithfulness and promises.
For an overly sentimental bastard like me, there is a lot of power in a place. Psychologists who’ve done research on environmental cues say that our surroundings have enormous strength in helping us recall habits, thoughts and events, sometimes against our conscious will.
So, today is my last day in America for the next few short months. I’m returning to a place I spent most of last year in. With the place come all the people, activities, smells and thoughts that made the experience what it was. The thoughts that accompanied me alone on crowded buses will show their face again. The wanderings of a heart when I saunter the humid night streets, looking for 羊肉串, will return. But speaking of a place he revisited, a friend recently said, “I felt like I left a part of myself back at Wheaton when I left. But I picked it up and ran with it when I visited again.”
This is my hope as I return to that dusty dirty city, that I will participate in a redemption of place. Perhaps something has changed between December of last year and tomorrow, when I sit cramped by a window seat watching an ocean of clouds wash by. Perhaps the change will allow me to face those memories that spit in my face, and take back from them the pieces of me they should’ve never been given. Perhaps, when I leave again this time, I will fly back more healed, more whole for facing this place.
Eventually, like my friend, I’ll go back to Wheaton and run away with the pieces that I left there as well.
For an overly sentimental bastard like me, there is a lot of power in a place. Psychologists who’ve done research on environmental cues say that our surroundings have enormous strength in helping us recall habits, thoughts and events, sometimes against our conscious will.
So, today is my last day in America for the next few short months. I’m returning to a place I spent most of last year in. With the place come all the people, activities, smells and thoughts that made the experience what it was. The thoughts that accompanied me alone on crowded buses will show their face again. The wanderings of a heart when I saunter the humid night streets, looking for 羊肉串, will return. But speaking of a place he revisited, a friend recently said, “I felt like I left a part of myself back at Wheaton when I left. But I picked it up and ran with it when I visited again.”
This is my hope as I return to that dusty dirty city, that I will participate in a redemption of place. Perhaps something has changed between December of last year and tomorrow, when I sit cramped by a window seat watching an ocean of clouds wash by. Perhaps the change will allow me to face those memories that spit in my face, and take back from them the pieces of me they should’ve never been given. Perhaps, when I leave again this time, I will fly back more healed, more whole for facing this place.
Eventually, like my friend, I’ll go back to Wheaton and run away with the pieces that I left there as well.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Here's to Giving Up
Giving up well is like trying to gracefully eat spaghetti while wearing a white shirt; …one wonders if it’s ever been done successfully.
When the sour sting of bitterness starts lingering in the mouth after the teeth are brushed at night… when anger is found systematically speckling your blurred consciousness in the mornings, all is not right. Moving forward should not be independent of Agape, and true healing cannot take root in hatred.
Mending, at the cost of love, is not mending at all.
When the sour sting of bitterness starts lingering in the mouth after the teeth are brushed at night… when anger is found systematically speckling your blurred consciousness in the mornings, all is not right. Moving forward should not be independent of Agape, and true healing cannot take root in hatred.
Mending, at the cost of love, is not mending at all.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Eileen's Garden
On an early morning far too crisp for May, I drove by my old pastor's house, surprised to find him bent over turning dirt in his front yard. There was a colorful little sign planted in the ground, staking claim to it as "Eileen's Garden".
Eileen, his faithful friend, companion and wife for so many years, got to see her Jesus recently.
What did God say, when the pastor begged Him to work a miracle and raise the dead? Which parts of his seminary textbooks and theology ran through his broken heart, washed in sorrow? What did all those sermons he preached on suffering and death mean now? What does God think, when we are on our knees, trying to change His mind with speechless tears?
I could only wonder what he was thinking as he squinted under the morning sun, what memories were being dug up, what loneliness was being buried as he breathed the perfume of compost under his shovel.
"You can spend your whole life working for something, just to have it taken away... There ain't no reason things are this way... that's how they always been and they intend to stay, I can't explain why we live this way, we do it every day... but love will come set me free, I do believe, love will come set me free, I know it will... " -Brett Dennen, Ain't No Reason
Eileen, his faithful friend, companion and wife for so many years, got to see her Jesus recently.
What did God say, when the pastor begged Him to work a miracle and raise the dead? Which parts of his seminary textbooks and theology ran through his broken heart, washed in sorrow? What did all those sermons he preached on suffering and death mean now? What does God think, when we are on our knees, trying to change His mind with speechless tears?
I could only wonder what he was thinking as he squinted under the morning sun, what memories were being dug up, what loneliness was being buried as he breathed the perfume of compost under his shovel.
"You can spend your whole life working for something, just to have it taken away... There ain't no reason things are this way... that's how they always been and they intend to stay, I can't explain why we live this way, we do it every day... but love will come set me free, I do believe, love will come set me free, I know it will... " -Brett Dennen, Ain't No Reason
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
"Let's come back as better people."
[For the full sensory experience, this is to be read while listening to “Homecoming,” by Kanye West :)]
I’m under the impression that transitional periods of life, artificial time markers and cultural rites of passages are wonderful excuses to reflect, refocus, and redirect. (Perhaps to reduce, reuse and recycle as well?)
A quote was given to us upon receiving our HNGR certificates:
"Remember your Creator during your youth when all possibilities lie open before you and you can offer all your strength intact for his service. The time to remember is not after you become senile and paralyzed! Then it is not too late for your salvation, but too late for you to serve as the presence of God in the midst of the world and creation. You must take sides earlier - when you can actually make choices, when you have many paths opening at your feet, before the weight of necessity overwhelms you." -Jacques Ellul, from "Reason for Being: A Meditation on Ecclesiastes"
As I crossed over the bridge to Jersey, it felt as gangster and skank as ever. My home felt countless hours of silence and thoughts away, scattered with the ones who shared the bread and wine of my brokenness with me. A flurry of hasty packing, subdued looks, and a few unvoiced grievances later, I drove across lines that were more than just state borders.
[Now, how can I pretend to be an adult?]
All I have figured out is this: Grow where you are planted.
I could ramble on about chasing dreams and being true, about being thankful and living with no regrets, but you have pop-psychologists and crappy Christian authors to parrot those truisms for you. Instead I will ask myself to fight the lies of individualism (in community) while resisting thoughtless acts of conformity (apart from the world). I will remind myself that life is a process and that we are omni-nothing. Faithfulness is valued above whatever shackles the world calls success, and that people, whom we are called to minister to, loved and breathed in God’s image, are found in every corner of life. We are placed where we are for a reason. There are no shortcuts here. We might as well learn to thrive.
Trust, amidst the uncertainties and paradox, because there are many.
“I have come that you may have life, and have it to the full.”
When I jumped out of an airplane with a piece of fabric to save my life, I realized that I wasn’t afraid of death. Death is easy. It’s quite passive. What I’m afraid of is a passive life that is more disheartening than death. Living life to the full is what’s hard. Remember the Beatitudes, the upside-down Kingdom, and the beauty of loving Jesus more than you love your husband or wife, your job, your children… “For your heavenly Father knows that you need them… Seek first His Kingdom…”
“Remember your Creator in the days of your youth, before the days of trouble come and the years approach when you will say, ‘I find no pleasure in them.’”
Maybe all of this is like a photo with the light flooding in, where the sun is brighter than it should be, and where the details and difficulties are bleached out in a glowing brilliance. Maybe. You can accuse me of forgetting about making ends meet, of glossing over moribund 9-5’s and of coming home without the strength to hope. I could be guilty of baseless idealism. But this is my point exactly… the Gospel was always counter-intuitively brilliant to me, absurd and unrealistic in this cold world, yet I believe it because of its inexplicable contrast against hopelessness and death.
If we are not light and salt, hands and feet, if we are not the hope we profess or the love that dies to give life, if cynics like me can’t look beyond our naval and hold onto something other than our stark existentialism, well… I would be lost.
Friend, don’t you dare wake up one morning and not know how you got there. And if you ever considered me a friend, don’t let me slide obliviously down that path either.
Faith, hope, and love. Always love.
["Now everybody got the game figured out all wrong. I guess you never know what you got til it's gone.... Do you think about me now and then?..."]
I’m under the impression that transitional periods of life, artificial time markers and cultural rites of passages are wonderful excuses to reflect, refocus, and redirect. (Perhaps to reduce, reuse and recycle as well?)
A quote was given to us upon receiving our HNGR certificates:
"Remember your Creator during your youth when all possibilities lie open before you and you can offer all your strength intact for his service. The time to remember is not after you become senile and paralyzed! Then it is not too late for your salvation, but too late for you to serve as the presence of God in the midst of the world and creation. You must take sides earlier - when you can actually make choices, when you have many paths opening at your feet, before the weight of necessity overwhelms you." -Jacques Ellul, from "Reason for Being: A Meditation on Ecclesiastes"
As I crossed over the bridge to Jersey, it felt as gangster and skank as ever. My home felt countless hours of silence and thoughts away, scattered with the ones who shared the bread and wine of my brokenness with me. A flurry of hasty packing, subdued looks, and a few unvoiced grievances later, I drove across lines that were more than just state borders.
[Now, how can I pretend to be an adult?]
All I have figured out is this: Grow where you are planted.
I could ramble on about chasing dreams and being true, about being thankful and living with no regrets, but you have pop-psychologists and crappy Christian authors to parrot those truisms for you. Instead I will ask myself to fight the lies of individualism (in community) while resisting thoughtless acts of conformity (apart from the world). I will remind myself that life is a process and that we are omni-nothing. Faithfulness is valued above whatever shackles the world calls success, and that people, whom we are called to minister to, loved and breathed in God’s image, are found in every corner of life. We are placed where we are for a reason. There are no shortcuts here. We might as well learn to thrive.
Trust, amidst the uncertainties and paradox, because there are many.
“I have come that you may have life, and have it to the full.”
When I jumped out of an airplane with a piece of fabric to save my life, I realized that I wasn’t afraid of death. Death is easy. It’s quite passive. What I’m afraid of is a passive life that is more disheartening than death. Living life to the full is what’s hard. Remember the Beatitudes, the upside-down Kingdom, and the beauty of loving Jesus more than you love your husband or wife, your job, your children… “For your heavenly Father knows that you need them… Seek first His Kingdom…”
“Remember your Creator in the days of your youth, before the days of trouble come and the years approach when you will say, ‘I find no pleasure in them.’”
Maybe all of this is like a photo with the light flooding in, where the sun is brighter than it should be, and where the details and difficulties are bleached out in a glowing brilliance. Maybe. You can accuse me of forgetting about making ends meet, of glossing over moribund 9-5’s and of coming home without the strength to hope. I could be guilty of baseless idealism. But this is my point exactly… the Gospel was always counter-intuitively brilliant to me, absurd and unrealistic in this cold world, yet I believe it because of its inexplicable contrast against hopelessness and death.
If we are not light and salt, hands and feet, if we are not the hope we profess or the love that dies to give life, if cynics like me can’t look beyond our naval and hold onto something other than our stark existentialism, well… I would be lost.
Friend, don’t you dare wake up one morning and not know how you got there. And if you ever considered me a friend, don’t let me slide obliviously down that path either.
Faith, hope, and love. Always love.
["Now everybody got the game figured out all wrong. I guess you never know what you got til it's gone.... Do you think about me now and then?..."]
Monday, May 19, 2008
Dear Chicago:
Tonight was my last night with you, wrapped in blankets on the roof of my house, staring at your moon with my friends. It's the second half of May, but you're still so damn cold. I guess some things just won't change.
I sometimes catch myself wishing you were different. That I was different. I sometimes wish humility could have come without the humbling, that friends didn't come with the drama. Sometimes, I wish that your streets were gentler to my thoughts and your songs kinder to my heart. I wish you would have taught me to love rightly and to forget myself more often.
Maybe tomorrow, when I spend my night driving through Ohio listening to Over the Rhine, or next month back under the lights of Tianjin 羊肉 vendors, I won't be so bitter over your painful winters. Maybe, as I look up and see stars under Mongolian skies or neon towers across Victoria Harbour, a smile will greet the thought of my brothers and sisters who all have '08 after their names. After all, however imperfect and odd we were, however fleeting our joy was, you made us beautiful, if only for a moment.
Tomorrow, I'll squeeze the last of Wheaton in my back seat, packed in paper boxes. I'm sure I'll find pieces of you with every familiar face.
I'm leaving you with a broken heart, and I'm not coming back until He fixes it. I'm not coming back until I'm a better person, and your winds no longer cut so deep.
Until then, ciao, buddy. My friends here will hold you down.
Yea, here's to the nights we felt alive.
Love,
Chuck
I sometimes catch myself wishing you were different. That I was different. I sometimes wish humility could have come without the humbling, that friends didn't come with the drama. Sometimes, I wish that your streets were gentler to my thoughts and your songs kinder to my heart. I wish you would have taught me to love rightly and to forget myself more often.
Maybe tomorrow, when I spend my night driving through Ohio listening to Over the Rhine, or next month back under the lights of Tianjin 羊肉 vendors, I won't be so bitter over your painful winters. Maybe, as I look up and see stars under Mongolian skies or neon towers across Victoria Harbour, a smile will greet the thought of my brothers and sisters who all have '08 after their names. After all, however imperfect and odd we were, however fleeting our joy was, you made us beautiful, if only for a moment.
Tomorrow, I'll squeeze the last of Wheaton in my back seat, packed in paper boxes. I'm sure I'll find pieces of you with every familiar face.
I'm leaving you with a broken heart, and I'm not coming back until He fixes it. I'm not coming back until I'm a better person, and your winds no longer cut so deep.
Until then, ciao, buddy. My friends here will hold you down.
Yea, here's to the nights we felt alive.
Love,
Chuck
Monday, May 12, 2008
This is the Way the World Ends, Not With a Bang But a Whimper
What's the point of not drinking if I'm going to wake up with a pounding pain behind my eyes? What's the point of not saying goodbye if I'm still going to think about you?
The Hollow Men
T. S. Eliot
Mistah Kurtz—he dead.
A penny for the Old Guy
I
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.
II
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.
Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—
Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom
III
This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.
Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.
IV
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.
V
Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper
The Hollow Men
T. S. Eliot
Mistah Kurtz—he dead.
A penny for the Old Guy
I
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.
II
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.
Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—
Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom
III
This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.
Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.
IV
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.
V
Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper
Monday, May 5, 2008
One Last Huzzah for Chi-City
To think oneself away from thoughts
is really like
hiring a beaver
to dam[n] Lake Michigan.
The PSI of driving by…
(under the yellow bellies of sliding street lights)
… concrete we’ve kissed with our feet,
coat still laced with our sins,
vaults my liver, lungs, heart, brain
tenuous and shifting
like the shadows unable to stand still.
is really like
hiring a beaver
to dam[n] Lake Michigan.
The PSI of driving by…
(under the yellow bellies of sliding street lights)
… concrete we’ve kissed with our feet,
coat still laced with our sins,
vaults my liver, lungs, heart, brain
tenuous and shifting
like the shadows unable to stand still.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
3:57 AM
I crawled underneath my covers
Just as birds heralded another rotation of this world
Premonitions that should weigh no more than feathers
Are the hardest, heaviest of masters
"The tyranny of the shoulds,"
Bending my body and soul
Soul and body, no dualism here,
Upon my sheets like a vice
Perhaps I may yet wring a drop of wisdom out of the down
"I am who the Lord has made me."
Mantras to wash my trembling mind in truths
Too bland, too dense for me to palate.
Words do not breathe deeply upon my chest
Ideas are not soft upon my skin
The weights of balancing paradox, treading the gray,
Scrambling to hold both story and reality in my embrace...
Warmth is found in your flesh, flushed with life
And the ever haunting holy ghost.
Visions, thus, not so easily forgotten.
Just as birds heralded another rotation of this world
Premonitions that should weigh no more than feathers
Are the hardest, heaviest of masters
"The tyranny of the shoulds,"
Bending my body and soul
Soul and body, no dualism here,
Upon my sheets like a vice
Perhaps I may yet wring a drop of wisdom out of the down
"I am who the Lord has made me."
Mantras to wash my trembling mind in truths
Too bland, too dense for me to palate.
Words do not breathe deeply upon my chest
Ideas are not soft upon my skin
The weights of balancing paradox, treading the gray,
Scrambling to hold both story and reality in my embrace...
Warmth is found in your flesh, flushed with life
And the ever haunting holy ghost.
Visions, thus, not so easily forgotten.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Thoughts After a Play
How is it that love can simultaneously be the most potent, reality changing, existence affirming "force," yet so often be misguided, hollow, ephemeral, and that which has the capacity to cause or receive the greatest suffering all in one breath? How can something so good, only conceptually touched upon in its purest form, be so corrupt and twisted? How can it simultaneously be more real then the floor I sit on, yet be as intangible as the shadow of a lifting fog?
... And why can't we turn it all off when we so desperately need a breath?
... And why can't we turn it all off when we so desperately need a breath?
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Sur le fil et Comptine D'un Autre Ete-L'Apre
At 3 in the morning when the really early birds are already singing and night owl friends are hardly sleeping, the word "hope" sounds strangely bright, anachronistic and misplaced amidst an emotional landscape that feels and smells like a monochrome portrait of New Orleans after Katrina.
We do not hope in ourselves, because one cannot hope in the death within, but must hope in life from without. We cannot hope in our contortions of dreams because they lack the substance to support reality. We cannot hope in the past because hope yearns forward by definition. We do not even hope in hope itself, because unless the object of hope cannot disappoint, we will be left again with our empty hands trying to cover our naked hearts.
And though we dirty our knees with our nose in the dirt and eyes out of focus, rolling the Kyrie off our tongue like the tears that follow gravity down interesting lines of our face, we cling, like the bleeding woman for what seems like 12 broken years, to the frayed edges of Hope hoping... hoping against hope that if we don't let go, He will say, "Child, your faith has healed you."
In whom shall I trust? In whom shall I hope?
We do not hope in ourselves, because one cannot hope in the death within, but must hope in life from without. We cannot hope in our contortions of dreams because they lack the substance to support reality. We cannot hope in the past because hope yearns forward by definition. We do not even hope in hope itself, because unless the object of hope cannot disappoint, we will be left again with our empty hands trying to cover our naked hearts.
And though we dirty our knees with our nose in the dirt and eyes out of focus, rolling the Kyrie off our tongue like the tears that follow gravity down interesting lines of our face, we cling, like the bleeding woman for what seems like 12 broken years, to the frayed edges of Hope hoping... hoping against hope that if we don't let go, He will say, "Child, your faith has healed you."
In whom shall I trust? In whom shall I hope?
Sunday, April 6, 2008
4/6/08
"I want to say that this was a mistake... The hurt of right now wants to blame everything on mistakes.. on foolishness.. on selfishness... but I know I shouldn’t be so hard on myself... I really did try the best that I could, even if they were mistakes. I have to keep telling myself that it’s not so wrong to hurt so much, that this is part of the process of things, and that the Lord has taught me a lot. And I have to hold on to the fact that there will be a better day... one in which I am not so broken... one in which I will be able to smile. It’s really hard believing that, especially since I’m so uncertain about the things that I used to be so sure about... things that I looked forward to, my motivation for pressing on.
Please Jesus, keep my eyes on You... even if all my other ideas and constructs fall, never let me go, because I’m terrified of where that leads... Please be my rock. If You strip me of all I have, please remain the rock upon which I am broken. May every one of my tears fall on you..."
Please Jesus, keep my eyes on You... even if all my other ideas and constructs fall, never let me go, because I’m terrified of where that leads... Please be my rock. If You strip me of all I have, please remain the rock upon which I am broken. May every one of my tears fall on you..."
Sunday, March 23, 2008
3/23/08
“Having it together”... I want to say it’s overrated. I want to say we should be able to break down and be ok with it. But in the end, the purpose of the breakdown is so that I can “have it together” again afterwards, because in this world, I need to be functional. I need to be able to study and take tests, write papers and concentrate. I can’t afford to sit around all day trying to “get better.” The difficulty is finding that delicate balance where I have the peace and freedom to lick my wounds while continuing to find ways of functioning.
I've been trying to make the most of the last few weeks I have here. I’ve been trying to keep my eyes on the glass that’s half full hoping that I can ignore the emptiness that screams at me. It screams in my face, and it seems like all I can do is squeeze my eyes shut, plug my fingers in my ears and yell back, “Lalalalala I’m not listening!”
Who the hell am I fooling?
I've been trying to make the most of the last few weeks I have here. I’ve been trying to keep my eyes on the glass that’s half full hoping that I can ignore the emptiness that screams at me. It screams in my face, and it seems like all I can do is squeeze my eyes shut, plug my fingers in my ears and yell back, “Lalalalala I’m not listening!”
Who the hell am I fooling?
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