How the Christology of Broadway Saved Me

A story has power. A story that resonates with your soul sings in concert with your heart creating space for growth; and a story well told reverberates through time.  I often find truth not only in the library that is scripture; but in the expressions of God evidenced by those artists who creations extol the knowledge and wisdom of God.  I am grateful for artists.  I am grateful for those souls who bare themselves before the burning and pure presence of God.  They are akin to David—dancing naked before the holy of holies.  They, without regard for convention, bring the pure Imago Dei into view.  Art saves me time and time again.  Victor Hugo was this artist when writting his essays which formed into the narratives we now know as Les Misérables.  He expressed God’s truth through his creative word crafting.  Indeed, he stated as much noting that “Wherever men go in ignorance or despair, wherever women sell themselves for bread, wherever children lack a book to learn from or a warm hearth, Les Misérablesknocks at the door and says: ‘open up, I am here for you.’” Hugo created this work to stand in opposition to a narrative prevalent in his and our time today.  He crafts and fashions an image of the Christ that is often lost in practice.  It is an image of Christ from which we, like the Father, turn our heads unable to look on at such suffering.  Yet, in Hugo’s work, when we meet Gavroche, Jean Valjean, Cosette, Fantine, or Éponine, one meets Christ.  The Christ that makes sense to me--the Christ who is not the hero of our fashioning.  

The Christ of our making is one that builds faith not tempered by sorrow, grief, loss, pain, and suffering. It is a faith unwittingly built on a sandy foundation; one on which I have seen many houses come to collapse. For in this false gospel that is preached, there is no room for a broken savior.  Often this foundation is one laid on the back of a person or even a personality.  Once the inevitable occurs, they walk away from any expression of faith, contemptable to any truth.  They are lost.  This experience lived out in those I love have brought me to a point of questioning. They, like I, can no longer tolerate the pretense required to maintain the thin veil of faith.  It is a faith that lacks the deeper substance.  It is here, in this place of doubt, where Hugo introduced me to the true Christ.  One that does not step in and save the day right at the moment we want; but one that lets Éponine die without knowing the love she sought; one that lets Fantine slip into the quiet of death having not seen her daughter again; and one that watches Gavroche die in the streets of Paris in his childhood fighting for dignity.  It confounds those who chant the mantra of the Christ they imagine; however, to those who know suffering, it resonates deeply.  To the clients that walk into my office, they have understanding. Understanding not taught upon a pulpit; but one taught through their own measure of horror.  It is in that place where one can hardly be looked upon that they gain something deeper than truth—they find the Truth in the suffering Christ.  

Hugo lead me back to Isaiah’s description of Christ— “a man of sorrows; a man acquainted with grief.”  Here is suffering.  Here is Christ.  On this Christ, one can build a faith that can stand the storm coming.  It weathers the loss that has yet to be experienced and the pain having yet born out in our lives.  It is a gospel not lacking hope.  It is a a gospel that stretches hope beyond the confines of this lived experience.  It is the hope that lasts when one stretches out to take hold of that which cannot be grasped this side of eternity.  In the musical derivative of Hugo’s work, a lyric that ends the narrative is sung by those characters who die in the midst of their suffering.  

do you hear the people sing?
lost in the valley of the night
it is the music of a people who are climbing to the light
for the wretched of the earth
there is a flame that never dies
even the darkest nights will end and the sun will rise

they will live again in freedom in the garden of the lord
they will walk behind the bloodshed
they will put away the sword
the chain will be broken and all men will have their reward!

will you join in our crusade?
who will be strong and stand with me?
somewhere beyond the barricade is there a world you long to see?
do you hear the people sing?
say, do you hear the distant drums?
it is the future that they bring when tomorrow comes!

I would invite you into this deeper truth; and for you to dive into this knowledge of a savior who suffers still.  I give you a caveat before leaping into this hope.  You will suffer; and you will let go of the cheap hope without the sureness of your foot underneath; but there, in the wavering, you will see the light that does not dim even as your eyes close at the last!

~The Christ I Know

I Know thee, Christ. 

Flesh and spirit part 

As sinew from bone;

It’s piercing marked with iron thorn.

Agony of cleaving and it’s release;

It’s pain felt and heard and known.

How might I know thee but in great affliction and delight? 

One kneads the other—working its yeast to bloom. 

And I, in love and fear, am scorned and lost in it’s merit. 

Redemption without salvation; no rescue from its sting. 

Experience yields to understanding. 

Wisdom forms in polarities. 

One without it’s other is lost:

Strangely entangled are these.

Proclaim the Christ who hangs

—bleeding, pierced and abandoned! 

We now are known and seen by

Brother sufferer; lonely wayfarer. 

I know thee, Christ.

Scaredy Cat

I confess. I most often cover my ears and look away when I’m watching a scary movie.  I learned my lesson from watching the movie “It” which haunted my nightmares for years.  Pennywise the clown has lurked in my mind and has crept into my dreams even now that I am thirty-two years old.   It’s a silly thing.  Reflecting now, I probably would undo having seen the film.  Some experiences are better to avoid; especially given the effects which follow them; however, fear can also keep us from the wonderful experiences of life.  We cannot avoid all chances.  

Fear is a powerful thing.  I would say that it singularly is the most effectually prevalent force in all of humanity save God’s enacting grace and love.  The shadow of fear stretches over almost every encounter in some measure or form—from avoiding a simple conflict to completely socially isolating.  Its prevalence can be seen in minor insecurities to extreme avoidances.  I see it everyday in my clients; I see it everyday in my friendships; I see it everyday in my family; I see it at my church, the internet, and everywhere.  Fear is celebrated by some, denied byothers, and still embraced by many.  It often prevents us from achieving our calling or drives us away from each other. It is a tyrant that rules with an iron fist.  Yet, fear is the very thing that believers are called to counter.  It is our great enemy.  Scripture address fear more often than it does almost any other foe.  The phrase “fear not” or some derivative shows up almost enumerable times (I’ll leave it to the biblical linguists out there to count).  

How do we beat it you ask? Love.  Or at least that is the Sunday school answer—  “Perfect love drives out fear.”  But like you all; I don’t know how to love perfectly.  As a one liner—it’s great but in practice I am dumbfounded on the how. Love is the mutual connecting we enact. Perfect love must be the balanced connection in relationship.  Yet, perfect love comes with a caveat.  We must give up our natural inclination to reactively pull away—to attempt to guarantee our safety.  But perfect love comes with no guarantee.  To love perfectly, we must overcome this fearful reaction. In other words, we must give up our need to control.  Control, or at least our attempt at it, is how I see fear being played out.  The problem is that control is something that we never truly have; and it most definitely is not a part of love.  Control cannot be love.  It drives people apart.  Control hardens our hearts.  Control is a lie.  It’s a lie we tell ourselves to convince ourselves that we have nothing to fear.  So, like me watching a scary movie we cut off our perception in denial thinking that we are safe.  It is a lie.  C.S. Lewis said it best saying

To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness.  But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change.  It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.  To love is to be vulnerable.” (Lewis,The Four Loves).

C.S. Lewis nails it.  Fear drives us not to connection but isolation; while love drives us towards connecting byencouraging vulnerability, pushing us towards a more perfect love.  God did this in becoming us—the ultimate vulnerability, the ultimate perfect love.  This love drives fear from shadowing our hearts; it drives into loving connection.  I must confess; I’m not very good at this.  I still am a scaredy cat.  I still cover my ears and close my eyes when fear presents itself.  But, I do know perfect love; and by this love I will seek to drive out my fears to emulate the perfect love of Christ.  I strive for this knowing that it is a work characterized by fear and trembling.            

Orphaned

My friend gave me a rather silly nickname of “Peter Cotton Nips.”  The aforementioned portion of this affectionate title comes from a pair of bedroom slippers that I wear that my friend calls my “bunnies” due to the strangely placed lining on the exterior heel that serves no purpose but to aesthetically appear as a rabbits tail.  Strange, I know.  The latter comes from an experience I had related to my friend recently.

 

I finally gave in to my wife’s begging and surprised her with a kitten this past summer for our anniversary.  He had been abandoned and left in the garage of my coworker at only two or three weeks old.  He was so small and was not weaned from his mother—an orphan with neither his natural mother nor an adoptive human one.  I took him.  I had him to myself for almost a week prior to giving him to Charley as she was out of town for her work.  I would hold him while in bed at night, and he would “nurse” on my cotton tees as though it would serve as a surrogate both for those parts I do not have and a mother he did not.  Well, I became “Peter Cotton Nips” and a cat owner to boot. 

 I have grown affectionate with Scout, and as a “father” to this growing kitten.  He still “nurses” on both Charley’s and my shirts before he goes to sleep.  I would presume this is more for comfort and a sense of security than any real nourishment, as cotton does not usually produce cat’s milk.  Why would he continue with no actual benefit?  My guess is that he is looking for the connection he would have gotten if he had not been abandoned from a healthy and whole feline family.  It does not surprise me.  I see this in my counseling practice all the time.  Children and adults alike are looking for this security, identity, and love, which has been denied to them left in the metaphorical garage of broken families, friendships, or a depraved society.  Alone and naked, they try suckling at the false hopes of all sorts of empty roads that lead nowhere.  Try as they might; they never get milk from cotton tees.  Yet, every day they try to distract from the reality of an empty garage. 

I could let the metaphor end drawing the line dividing those who are in faithful practice and those who are not; however, the truth is I am an orphan.  I have left the comfort of my family and found myself abandoned in a world that seems full of cotton tees and nothing of substantial nurturance.  The discrepancy I have with many of my clients is that, in my orphanhood, I have found an adoptive home.  My adoptive Father is one who can offer more than my t-shirt does to Scout.  He calls me into relationship that roots itself deeper than I could perceive on my own and gives me identify, connection, and love more fully into my personhood.  I am remade to fit the family line and the family name.  In this, I call Scout my brother—in that we share a remaking of our family; and God whispers to me as Charley and I do to Scout that “We make you whole; we are your real family.”        

*Photo Credit: to Rhonda C. Bohart Photography

To Live is Christ...

I see pain daily. Suffering is the defining theme of the woven narratives that I sit and encounter.  Children that have been raped, neglected, and abused; women who have been taught that they have no value or worth; men who are stuck in cycles of shame and anger—this is the brokenness that I endure throughout each day.  I had to learn to create some measure of distance from their stories to be able to be the aide that I have trained to be for them; however, the truth is often I suffer with them.  Those stories often haunt my waking day—images of the gruesome discovery of a suicide victim are there; women who have been violated; children orphaned both emotionally and physically.  I suffer.I am a man who loves fun and humor; however, this calling is not one for the faint hearted.  It calls me to a measure of shared sorrow.  It challenges me into those questions that have few satisfactory answers.  Why? How could God allow this to happen?  How can God be love when He seems indifferent to all this pain?  The truth is simple.  My job brings me closer to the One who is most “acquainted with grief, a man of sorrows.”  Somehow in our suffering we are united with Christ in His.  Paul seems to hit this point most clearly stating that “we rejoice in our sufferings” because in them we find the honing of our nature to be more in the likeness of Christ [my paraphrase].  Our suffering produces His character in us.  I do not mean to espouse the falseness in seeking martyrdom but rather not to shy from our call to suffer and cry out in the Spirit for God’s saving intervention. 

This is what distinguishes our suffering from those without the hope of Christ.  We have the faithful One to cry out to for help.  The Psalms epitomize this distinction.  They invite us into this back and forth of despair and hopefulness.  It gives voice to our struggle through our state of the Kingdom—“already but not yet.”   We cry out that “darkness is my only companion” and then turn to exclaim “I will sing of the steadfast love of the Lord, for ever; with my mouth I will make known your faithfulness to all generations.”

Our faith also gives us a renewed perspective.  We see beyond the thin veil of our lives.  We see into our future resurrection—our rebirth.  Paul writes that we are “co-heirs with Christ; provided we suffer with him in order that we may also be glorified with him.”  Suffering leads us to this hope in our glorification.  We strive against death but yearn for its release from the burden of a life that surrounds us with suffering.  I love Andrew Peterson’s exposition of this very tension.  He writes

            How long until this curtain is lifted?

How long is this the song that we sing?

How long until the reckoning?

You are holiness and grace

You are fury and rest

You are anger and love

You curse and you bless

You are mighty and weak

You are silence and song

You are plain as the day,

But you have hidden your face--

For how long? How long?

And I am standing in the stillness of the reckoning

The storm is past and rest is beckoning

Mighty God, how I fear you

How I long to be near you, O Lord

How long until the burden is lifted?

How long is this the song that we sing?

How long until the reckoning?

And I know that I don't know what I'm asking

But I long to look you full in the face

I am ready for the reckoning

So we yearn in our suffering.  We hope in our suffering.  And I will count my suffering as life in Christ sharing his sufferings.    

Forgetfulness

My grandfather does not remember me. It is a hard thing to reflect on the moments I have shared with him and realize that while I hold onto those experiences he cannot because of his dementia. To visit is difficult because much of what made my grandfather my grandfather is through our shared experiences. It is how I have known him. He looks at me now with a bit of vacancy. As a believer, I hold to the reality that his spirit remains and is more vibrant and enduring than his failing cognizance. However, it feels like a loss. Memories are important. Memories enable our learning. It facilitates our ability to grow as individuals and, ultimately, it is the sinews of our makeup. Our experiences form our identity and memory serves as a foundation on which we continue to build as we continually experience and grow.

Memory is not untainted. My grandfather’s experience reaffirms this reality. I cannot remember except through my own framework, and my framework has its own tint. In my relationship with my wife, this tint is seen most vividly as I clearly omit those offenses I have inflicted on her so easily and can enumerate even the most trivial offense she has committed against me. My memory fails. Instead of serving the purposes of God in my marriage, it serves to sew discord. As a therapist, I see the burden of memory in those that have experienced trauma. The long fingers of memory stretch from the past and paint our relationships with others, our identity, our ability to love, our health, and all of our being—that which we are. Memories can serve the dark as well as the light. Without self-discipline and forgiveness, we become slaves to our memories. We do not allow for mistakes to be made, and we perpetuate the sins committed against us into sins that we commit on another. The abused become abusers. The victim of violence becomes the perpetrator of it. The offended becomes the offender. Memories become the catalyst for a cycle that has no end.

Today is September 11, 2011. Ten years from the day violence ended many American lives. The call heard on every television channel, radio station, online article, commercial, tribute, and memorial is that “we will never forget.” We rush to immortalize this atrocity. I wonder if this is not our fatal mistake. I wonder if this memory will become the trauma that reshapes us for evil because we see through our tint of hurt and hate. I hope that we do not allow this tainted memory to become our identity. God has a divine ability to forget our sins. He says to us that he will no longer choose to remember those great acts of violence we commit toward him and towards our neighbors. The memories of our sin are the barrier that keeps us from communion with God and others. God’s answer to this barrier is to simply forget them. It is His choice to lay aside this defining evil in us and forget. As a believer trying to emulate Christ, I seek to forgive, but I also seek to forget. I can acknowledge the pain and trauma without perpetuating it. I do not want to be redefined by this evil. So I seek out this divine gift of forgetfulness—this Divine dementia—and trust to the perfect memory of God’s love.

Denial

I’ve taken on the habit of getting home and turning on the tube (or idiot box as my Dad refers to it) after work these days. Between getting home after dark all winter, being snowed in, and just pure emotional exhaustion from work, it’s all I want to do. The results are a jealous (for time) wife, an extra 15 lbs, and a general disengagement from life. I guess its how I turn it all off, the pain I confront daily. I will admit that it’s a poor coping skill, but I guess it feels better than the alternative—carrying it with me. Nevertheless, I have decided that this, my security blanket of isolation, must be carried to the altar; and Lent has offered me this opportunity.

Much like most seasons of the church calendar, I was not acquainted with Lent before being turned on to the liturgical helps of our faith. It seems a practice that wades against the tides of the outside world. Lent truly stands in opposition to what the world espouses, nature begins to quietly reveal, and our self-gratifying selves might crave. As winter begins to recede and spring encroaches on us, we clothe the altar in black and fast. Alleluia is hidden in the somberness of the reality of our brokenness and sin. We enter into a season of reflection and confession. We are not worthy of our salvation is the only conclusion we must come to in our hearts. This is the point. The world rejoices in the hope of spring, yet we pause to remember and sit in the scarlet squalor that was our pride.

It should not be a false humility nor a self-abasing chastisement, but rather a denial of the common practice of ignoring the reality of our fallen state. “The World goes not well” is this sobering reality. So we fast. We pray. We make confession. We deny ourselves our comforting disengagements to face the world, though the tide ebbs against us. We reacquaint ourselves with the purposes of God: truth, grace, and repentance.

So, I come home and face the brokenness. I fill my time without the anesthetic. Its dull sting reminds me to petition God again for salvation for my family, my friends, my clients, the world, and myself. Yet, I do so not in despair, but rather in light of Easter’s nearing. So let me simply confess that “the world goes not well, BUT the kingdom comes."

Freedom in the Form

I remember going to First Love Ministries for the first time. I was really uncomfortable. The charismatic tone of the worship was off putting for the likes of me—a traditional Southern Baptist. I did find something there that I had not really had before; a feeling of being wanted and accepted. A man named Charlie quite literally reached out to me and grabbed my arm. He told me that he loved me. I wept hard that night.

So I went back and regained my faith in that little house tucked away in Perry, Ga. Yet, the truth is that it was a forced fit. I loved the people. I met God weekly in the faces of that community; however, worship was strained for me. I wanted to force God to show himself to me as I watched those around me experience the fullness of the Spirit. I was a dry well. It’s not that I didn’t believe that Holy Spirit was moving in their life; on the contrary, I could see them living it out in their love for people. I am just a cynic. If it was going to happen to me it was going to have to be real. So dry.

Throughout this seminary experience Charley and I stuck with the familiar. We attended a wonderful little Baptist church in town. However, when we felt the need to move on from that community we decided to stop and rethink our understanding of church. I have always felt drawn to form. I was the goof who loved the rituals of my fraternity more than the parties. In my faith, this also holds true. My Baptist background gave me a love for the Word, but left me wanting for worship; my time at First Love gave me worship, but left me wanting for direction; and my time in seminary humbled my dogma, but left me wanting for a practical faith.

For me, a lot happens in my head. I am drawn to compelling exegesis, worship that speaks to my experience, and the bigger picture of my faith—the community of believers, past and present. I love feeling the connection with my faith in the tangibles too. After a few months sabbatical from church, Charley and I visited higher liturgical confessions. Through prayer, trial visits, meetings with trusted advisors, and ultimately, our comfort, we settled in at St. Aiden’s Anglican church. I no longer feel like a dry well. Instead, my prayer life has taken off. I reflect on God throughout my day. I meet God in worship with my entirety—the physical and spiritual. I feel a level of comfort in approaching God that I have never known before. Don’t get me wrong it’s not an infallible practice, but I have discovered a freedom in this form, this holy work.

Overwhelmed

It’s nine hours home from Wilmore. It’s not a quick kind of ride. I have the original Nano that cannot store the entirety of my music library, which in all honesty is not that extensive. I rarely update it anyway and end up listening to the same old stuff; however, this trip home led me to explore some high school era fads, namely Five Iron Frenzy. Ahhh, my ska days…another desperate attempt for me to be both cool and Christian. Charley and I sing to the top of our lungs more reminiscing and being playful than reflecting on the lyrics. Then we get to “Where the Zero meets the Fifteen.” The song narrates a tipping point moment for its author who begins to realize the gravity of desperation around him and his own incompetence to evoke lasting change. I guess I began to identify with the music because I had to start fighting back tears.

I am learning that the counselor’s chair is a hard one in which to sit. I am charged with sifting through the pieces of a lot of broken lives. My original conceptualization, during college as I first started this vocation, was one that foresaw my “saving” people from their heartaches. I was voted “most likely to ‘save’ the world” in high school after all. So far, this vision has been shattered. Instead, I find myself crawling up beside another bent-over individual searching for the missing pieces and hoping that in some small way I am a help. I found myself crying out with the singer and asking God what it is that I contribute, really? The lyrics go,

I put my face down in my hands,

water wells inside my eyes.

What do I have to give them?

Does it matter if I try?

I can't stand to see you suffer,

I try to intellectualize,

a formula to end your pain,

it doesn't work,

God knows I've tried.

I want to try and save the world,

but it never goes that way.

God I don't know what to do,

down at Colfax and Broadway.

I don’t intend to be a wet blanket; my purpose is not to be a discouragement, but rather to express this deep yearning to meet the needs of my clients. I want them to see the love of Christ in my service to them, but I also hope for them to be made whole. I don’t have the answers for them. Most of the time I’m struggling to come up with a treatment plan that is efficacious. In my friendships, it’s the same story just with a different twist. I give a very imperfect kind of love. I offer brokenness in exchange for brokenness. It is not despair that I am evoking, but rather, it is a realization that what they need does not come from me. This would be a disconcerting idea if what I was hoping for was to be a form of salvation; however, this is not mine, my family’s, my friend’s, nor my client’s hope. Our hope is not in what I have to offer anyway; it is way beyond me. The reality is that just like the author of the song, all I have to offer is “thirteen cents and a broken pen.”

Yearning

I admit it. I am a Christmas nut case. If I could put up a Christmas tree in October, I would. Something about the excitement of waiting for Christmas day truly stirs my soul. There is an electric feeling as everyone around you is decorating and preparing for all the celebrations, parties, and community events. Gingerly, I admit that I love even the cheesiest of Christmas traditions. Bring on “It’s A Wonderful Life,” “Elf,” and the twenty-four hour Christmas radio stations I say. This is not a popular perspective in seminary circles because of the march against the commercialization of Christmas, and in reality, I also agree that sometimes it feels like the Christmas story is so mixed up that one cannot distinguish between magic elves and the greatest condescension that ever occurred—God made flesh.

Growing up Southern Baptist, I had never heard the term Advent before coming to graduate school, but experiencing this practice and the rhythmic motions of the church calendar has developed a depth to my experience I had not before encountered. It has taught me that this season’s origins promote a time to sit in the anticipation of our salvation, which is culminated in the birth pains of the incarnation. And yes, we sometimes get too caught up in the commercialization, sure; but the bigger concern is without it, what do we anticipate? Not Calvary, not yet, anyway. Easter will have its day, but now, it is time to celebrate Advent.

I really enjoy the hymn “O Come, O Come, Emanuel” because in its verses it proclaims the answer to this question and truly articulates the spirit of the season. It’s somber tone does not mix well with likes of “Baby, Its Cold Outside,” but instead, it intermingles the feelings of both sadness and hope. In its verses, one can discern Advent’s true purpose—yearning. The song proclaims “Israel that mourns in lonely exile here,” which speaks to our precarious posture of knowing and practicing the new kingdom’s tenets in a world that does not except it wholly. The church are a people that proclaim hope in the midst of suffering. We declare that which has not come to its full fruition—the eschaton. And so we wait. We wait yearning and looking to the day when Christ returns and the culmination of our faith is fulfilled.

Meanwhile, this Advent season, let me encourage you to slow down and reflect. Let us anticipate and look forward to promises not yet fulfilled as Israel and all of creation once did. Let the excitement grow. Anticipate. Hope. Yearn.

Arrogance

I was talking with someone the other day about training I was attending the following day for Parent Child Interaction Therapy (PCIT). After mentioning the title of it, she instantly seemed to discount it with a flippant remark of “I hope whoever is teaching it has kids.” I instantly got defensive, as I do not have children yet my profession is working predominantly with children and parents by facilitating and promoting healthy parenting skills. I told her that hers was an ignorant perspective. Now I could go off for quite some time about this perspective because I face it quite often. By experience, I have met too many parents who were really bad at parenting to believe that it is a magical and inherent trait that comes naturally through childbirth. I do believe that the experience of the role of parent will carry lessons that will augment my therapy and further my empathy for the stresses that it carries. In truth, I was offended and spoke out of turn; and I will rest in the reality that I have been able to help many parents with troubled kids who desperately needed my assistance.

What interests me about this interchange is the measure of arrogance that comes from our rigid perspectives. I am right and they are wrong. Not only personally and professionally does this pride seem to creep into our lives, but also in our spiritual and theological perspectives. This discussion often leads to a digression into the abyss of relativism. My intention is to avoid that error. I do not purpose that absolute Truth does not exist; but rather that our grasp on it is tenuous. The nuances of a fallen creation reach out of our past and muddle our perspectives leaving us insecure and defensive. We tense at the first signs of challenge to our worldview. “How could they be a democrat! That is unChrisitian!”; “How could someone believe in Calvinism!”; or “Parenting is a skill set; stop embracing that ignorant perspective!” These come from a place of fear and insecurity; as though someone else’s non-adherence to our perspective somehow challenges our very identity.

I think that this is the key—identity. Fallibility is a difficult and unstable reality that causes us to build up our defenses with the paper mache coverings of truth (note the lower case t). We do this to protect the “truth” or reality that we create to feel secure. I really enjoy Volf’s take on this “truth” in his work Exclusion and Embrace. For Volf, truth in light of “pervasive non-innocence” is an impossible task. Neither the offended nor the offender can see from the perspective of Truth (note the big T). God alone has this perspective. If we are called to seek after Truth, then are we charged with an impossible task? In this life, I think yes. Our faith is our abiding in Christ. We hope. We must let our false coverings fall to the floor to embrace the reality of our limitations. The arrogance that we hold, to ensure the safety of our false realities, only serves to sever the relationships that we hold dear.

Apart

I had one of those dreams when you are back at high school the other night. It is a disconcerting prospect to say the least. Most of the time these consist of my having to return to take a class that is required or finding out that I have not been attending a class and there is a test I must take. Generally, dreams like this are incredibly anxiety provoking. I always wonder why these take place in my high school. I have gone to both an undergrad and graduate schools that have, academically, been much more strenuous. However, there is something about those formative years that leaves a mark.

If I were to characterize my early years with a word, it would have to be loneliness. Of course, there was the constant exertion to ‘fit in’ or be socialized; however, for me this experience was only the superficial coverings of a deeper struggle. This loneliness penetrated deep. Friendships, social acceptance, and even girlfriends seemed only to serve as a means of deferring this feeling—a distraction from the distance I felt. It never cured me. As I have matured and let go of the social pressure to be accepted, my relationships have become more satisfying, but even still, this feeling remains today. As a seminary student, I have discovered community, a deeper appreciation for scripture, and perspective on my Christian walk; but this feeling of distance shades every new experience. In my spiritual life, loneliness embarrasses me. Surely, there is some deficit or sin that causes this to exist? I recall being told once, in disclosing this shameful feeling, that it was training as a call into ministry—a ministry apart. This perspective enabled me to embrace this as a part of my vocation and calling, but if I am to be honest, loneliness continues to shade my heart no matter the coverings I choose to wear.

There it is! No real resolution or rationale to offer. This separateness is a part of me, and yet I wonder if this is not part of most everyone? If they will allow themselves to quiet their heart before God in complete nakedness without the coverings that enable our comfort and avoidance, then maybe they would discover this experience. Perhaps this is a part of the human condition that we are driven to be known without satisfaction until the eschaton? Maybe this could be why Christ promised the church that he would “be with you always” at the ascension. Why not remind the church of future glory and resurrection? Or wouldn’t the “more than conquerors” scripture reference be more appropriate here? I think that Jesus knew the very personal experience of loneliness. I must embrace this lonely feeling as a call to walk in faith and not in my feeling, no matter its pervasiveness. Perhaps this loneliness is a reminder that we confess in faith the presence of God in our isolation. While we cannot escape the long road ahead, it is a reminder that though we feel we walk it alone, in actuality, we do not.

Mourning

Pain, loss, and trauma are our reality. As a therapist, I come in contact with this daily. Woundedness is in no short supply at least in my experience; and it is the common initiation we all endure as a broken creation. To develop connections in relationship ensures this baptism of pain. With this universal reality, one would assume a level of competence in comforting those who feel its sting; however, this could not be further from the truth. It is said that “sympathy kills,” and this is truth. Nothing re-traumatizes with such acuity as much as the flippant and disconnected comments during a time of loss or pain. “God must have needed him more” or “well, you got to move on” are the platitudes that exude not only our inaptitude for comforting those stricken but also our selfishness in maintaining our own level of comfort. Those whom we can, we avoid. Those whom we can not avoid, we write off with one of these callous comments to put the distance we need between us and their pain.

Yet there is something to be shared here not avoided. We are so agitated, confused, and at a loss with how to handle the pain of another, yet this should be our central purpose as a church body. Christ was known as being “acquainted with grief” which I believe is not limited to his individual trials, but rather it includes the pain of those around him and the entirety of humanity. Are we not supposed to take on this role as his body? Mourning is a sacrament. It is a sacred practice of believers. To avoid it pushes us away from our purpose and cheapens the reality of our experience. It also undermines the very nature of Christ’s ministry that included shedding tears over Lazarus’ death, weeping over Jerusalem’s state, and enduring the sorrow of Gethsemane. We are called to mourn.

Recently, it seems that pain has been introduced to my friends and family—losses that cut to the core of our family or community’s identity. It seems we are faced with the choices of avoidant comfort or mutual sorrow. For me, I embrace sharing this pain with them, because one cannot force hope or faith especially in light of acute pain. The others in our lives must stand beside us and take on that role. We can have hope in the light of our loved one’s hopelessness; we can have faith when our friends cannot believe that God is good; we can stand in the gap when the false foundations of religion crumble to the storm of honest despair.

As tragedy occurs, death creeps into our lives, and unforeseen losses overtake those we love let us not run and hide but rather let us tear our clothes, put dirt on our heads, and beat our chests with mutual sorrow and pain. Let’s suffer with them by mourning and crying out to God the injustices of our world.

Expectations

Last night, Charley and I, with some friends, went to an Alton Brown book signing at a local bookstore. Alton, as we are on a first name basis now, took questions from the crowd and responded in his TV persona’s quirky way for most of the night. As the questions progressed, a girl in restaurant kitchen attire timidly stood to ask for advice as she plans to go on to culinary school. Alton emphatically stated “Don’t go; at least not yet.” Alton’s response could be seen as a little rough; however, the brusque honesty gave way to concern as he explained that college should be her first step. We were a little taken aback as we watched this girl’s expectations crashing on the floor, but watching the interaction between them, we felt redemption as he promised her a job if she completed college. Wow!

I turned twenty-nine two days ago. I have promised myself to forego the dreading of age, to embrace celebrating each of life’s stages, and to avoid the pitfalls of too much self-reflection on my birthday. This book signing was part of my birthday experience, and this witnessed exchange caused me to break my third rule (or ‘Rule #1’, of my Dad’s accounting). I could not help myself from ruminating on life’s expectations. I have always avoided facing those standards because I always set them so high. Like this poor girl, I often find myself lost in the false hope of my “life’s plan.” At twenty-nine, I am only just now beginning my career; and after three and a half years of graduate school, I am still lacking the credentialing that will take me another two and a half years to complete. After all of those obstacles are conquered, I will still be almost at the poverty level of income. Ha!

In terms of vocation and calling, expectations are a poor marker or standard of success. Expectations are void of maturing and ignore the lessons of life. It is putting the proverbial cart before the horse. Spiritually, they are themselves the obstacles of a life called by God. A certain income, a status achieved, a level of recognition, or even a ‘righteous’ spiritual goal is a boast that we hold within ourselves the key to life. It is as if we could produce a formative purpose and plan. Expectations are our hopes placed on the what of our life instead of the who. It is a faith in anything but Christ. While I am still tempted to be disconcerted by those leering expectations, I am learning that if my expectations had been met, then my purpose would have been lost. I am thankful that I have encountered a moment like the prospective chef—a tough clarity. With this clarity comes some mourning of my lost expectations, but without them, I am free. Free, indeed!

Ambiguity

Choosing schools, for me, was more akin to drawing lottery numbers than a real and intentional search or decision. I was going to go to New Orleans Theological Seminary when Katrina changed my plans for me. Undergrad was just the same. I went to Samford merely because I went to Samford. It was the only school I applied to for some reason. I often feel like I am stumbling into whatever circumstances without any real plans. I have never understood those individuals who were waiting for God’s final say. They look for a neon sign hanging over every encounter they come across that depicts the direction they are to go. I guess I have just missed the boat. All I can think is that I am sorry for those individuals that whip themselves trying to manipulate God to answer their insecurities and fears.

I have come across two verses in my life that have changed me to the core. Only two have really bent and formed me so dramatically. One of these comes from Isaiah and speaks to this very issue. Israel has turned away from God; God is going to bring them back in the usual method; and God’s grace is reaffirmed. Then…there is this odd phrase:

“Your ears will hear a word behind you, ‘This is the way, walk in it,’ whenever you turn to the right or to the left.”

Right or left? This ambiguity is a little uncomfortable for us isn’t it? We want the lighted path. We want to know the mind and will of God. Isn’t that what it means to be a Christian? We follow the path laid out for us—the lamp at our feet. The scriptures have all the answers, like when I need to pick between renting or buying a home here in Wilmore…right? Or maybe "God is not the micro manager” (Meeks, 2010) we are so desperate to make him. I don’t mean to imply that we should cease praying. No, no, no. I do mean that faith is stepping out first and trusting that even with an unfortunate choice God will mold us closer in his image. In the Isaiah passage, the voice is a metaphor borrowed from shepherds, who use to follow their sheep, and recall them when they go out of the way. It is a loving affirmation that the choices we make matter little in light of God’s loving intention for us.

Ambiguity should not be confused with insecurity. This ambiguity that I boast is the most secure I have ever lived. It finally resolves itself in the resignation that the voice affirming my every move is the culmination of my faith. The choices that I am faced with day-to-day serve to give me opportunities to stretch me upward. My rather peculiar and blind stumbling, though hard to watch for many of you, is a beautiful boast in the one calling out behind me. This leaping out can be difficult, but somehow, I find this to be the single most amazing grace in my life.

Bread and Wine

I was attending a church in support of a friend. He performs by singing in a worship team in a local church whose campus more resembles a regional airport than a church community. Being drawn more to smaller churches nestled into the local community, I must admit approaching this experience with some preconceived notions of a consumer-minded people.

I was not disappointed. The mall-like parking lot was crowded and my wife and I followed the push of humanity through multiple concourses past a bistro-like coffee counter, massive fellowship hall/atrium, a child care facility that would put any other program to shame, and finally into a stadium seated theatre that was already filling to capacity. Popular music played in the background as we took our seats. What ensued was magical. Lights flashed, images paned across the screens as the worship team welcomed all with a Rob Thomas song, and our eyes turned toward the singular speaker who came center stage. The message was compelling—a challenge to us as a church body to live beyond our regrets and see our life through the eyes of God.

You may be able to tell what direction I am going here, but before you nod in agreement or shake with resignation at my lack of relevance let me set the record straight. This church does much to forward the kingdom of God. They embrace and challenge the norms of the church by loving those that have been rejected by most other church communities. Single teen mothers, those who are intelligently disabled, the sexually broken, and others marginalized by society have found a home and acceptance here where other church communities have turned their backs. But…

What followed will guide my discernment. Communion was passed to us in our seats, a medium for taking Eucharist I am familiar with because of my Baptist roots; however, what shocked me was the lack of celebrating it. While I was not expecting a formal liturgy, I was expecting a form of reverence, yet there was no guidance, no mutual sharing, no explanation, no acknowledgement—each to his own purpose. Why all this fuss? This simple form of blessing, bread and wine, carries with it a medium for God’s grace. Some celebrate communion to symbolize, some to memorialize, some to partake, and others to share in Christ’s suffering. No matter your position, this simple act was singled out by Christ to be shared with those who claim this grace. This celebration is what identifies Christ’s church. We are a people of the bread and the wine.

No matter the call to “become all things to all people,” this act is not precluded as our shared confession. Christ’s body has been broken; Christ’s blood has been spilled out on the altar. Our call to relevance, our call to social justice, our call to reach out to those who suffer does not rule out our call to be His people. We must not forsake our identity; we are to embrace this simple calling and blessing. The church must hold both of these pursuits in tension; or better yet, let us celebrate Eucharist as our call to die for others, to suffer with those who suffer, to take up the marginalized, and to further the kingdom of God. Let us do these acts of justice and mercy under the banner of our identity of Christ’s church; lets share this simple blessing of bread and wine.

Identity

Fall is such an amazing season. There is a feeling of excitement as the sweltering of summer begins to recede, people come out of their homes to play outside, and from most living rooms on Saturdays the reverberating sounds of cheering crowds and obnoxious sports commentary are filling in all the gaps. While I love football season, something in me has changed since this strange obsession has taken over. Perhaps it is staleness in the disillusionment that Georgia will ever actually be a contender for a BCS title; or it’s the realization that what drives us, as a people, is an inherent lacking. To what end do we invest ourselves so intently on identifying with a sports team? Such passion is displayed that dogma is more associated with winning seasons than our freedom or God’s sovereignty. But why? Why would we be drawn so readily to this identity?

It is so easy. Our colors, slogans, fight songs, and ‘history’ are already outlined for us with little to no real commitment or suffering. A losing season simply means withdrawing from sport debates or avoiding wearing our team’s logo until it can be done with only minor scrutiny. There is little to no cost for us. However, this is only a short-term diversion. When the sounds of competition quiet, what we discover is that the lack we were trying so desperately to fill remains and has grown during our little distraction.

Who are we as a people? Christ has called us to a higher vision of community and belonging. First, he has called us into community with himself. We are caught up into Trinity—the very nature of belonging. From that relationship, we find our identity and hope. Yet, this identity costs us dearly. It is a wrestling with the character of God, which, like Jacob, causes us pain. This mutual suffering that we share gives us what we are so desperately trying to find. In this relationship, we are led to our deaths on the cross that has been revealed in Christ. Second, from this relationship we discover true community among ourselves. We do not all know the same slogans, share common colors, or even speak the same language; however, our voices are sonorously intermingled and rise in the same mournful yet hopeful song—“come, come, Emmanuel.” Finally, our identity is founded on our modeling the character of God to a world that has grown deaf to His voice. No longer should we squander in shame with what Christ has honored us—a cross.

Perhaps, we are innocent in our obsessive sports associations; however, I would venture to assert that it is a minor symptom to a more devastating truth. We are lost seeking identity in all but what we are created to be. We chant our mantras trying to drown out the sound of God calling us to be the church in community. I look forward to the day that the sleeper awakes and discovers her true beauty—the church whose identity is finally caught up in the love of God and each other. Though you should be warned! This identity is costly. This identity will cost you everything.

Dichotomy

Last time I was at my parents, I spent some time picking through my old closet that is currently housing anything from wedding items to soft air guns I bought on a whim in college. While musing on some of the oddities, I happened across a painting I had made in my high school art class. It was really quite disturbing. Staring back at me was an attempt at a self-portrait. I guess I had thought myself quite the symbolist. I had drawn “me” divided into two halves—one side evil, with fire in the eye and all, and one side good, complete with kitschy scripture quoting. Bear in mind that at this time I was beginning my spiritual journey and early Christian walk; however, even then I had come to feel tension in the paradox of “Christian” living. While I no longer believe I can express that sentiment in water color, the reality is, I still feel that tension now in my life.

A desire to meet some need in my life and behavior that does not get me there—those pressures metaphorically pull me apart. Paul writes with authority on this polarity. “I do what I don’t want to do” Isn’t this just silly? Why am I such a fool? On thinking on it, it is an attempt to gain some measure of control. I desire and need intimacy, but in a lame attempt to secure it, I try and control my relationships. Control is the opposite of relational intimacy. At the heart of it must come trust and resignation to allow the other into our lives. In my relationship with God, this tension plays out like a tragedy. I have drunk the proverbial poison of my own attempts of “grace” and caused the very separation I was trying to avoid. It is the most devastating use of irony that we employ in our life’s narrative. Taking my own road, I quickly find myself lost. Instead of marital intimacy, I find mistrust; instead of supportive community, I find social isolation; instead of service in love, I find I am trying to be served through manipulation; instead of righteous living, I find myself defending sin by claiming entitlement to ‘happiness.’ What a crock!

As a counselor, my job is to promote my client’s welfare by ‘reality testing’ and promoting ‘rational living’; but the reality is that rationality only gets you part of the way down the right road. Resignation gets you all the way there. I do not mean to promote resignation by way of apathy, but rather, I am promoting a letting go of control. Ultimately, at heart, there is where our roads to contentment diverge to no real satisfactory end. I’m still being torn apart, but I hope to learn the lesson that when I forge my own path all I get is a tacky painting.