I'll take the road less traveled by
That's what my father always said
Now he works in an office
With a whore in his bed
My mother sleeps alone at night
Dreaming of all her regret inside
I wanna tell her that I love her
Oh and if I could
I would've given her so much better
Cause no don't you tell me
That that man is my father
Oh just some hooded conceiver
Who tried really, really hard to please her
So I'm returning to my gladness
When I was only ten
Playing football in the front yard
And sweating with my friends
I remember when I was thirteen
It was October something
I was standing on that front lawn listening
That was the first time I heard You calling
As the sun was cooling down
And the moms were about to drive their kids around
And they say, "Blah, blah, blah, blah"
And they say, "Blah, blah, blah"
They give us truth deceiving
I don't think that's truth at all
And they say, "Blah, blah, blah, blah"
And they say. "Blah, blah, blah"
They give us love that's leaving
I don't think that's love
Oh and the steeple people
Oh they're so happy not knowing You
So boldly do they pervert Your truth
Oh did they think we wouldn't grow up
Did they think we couldn't throw back up
The sour milk they've been pouring down out throats
Oh they have raised one pissed off generation
With kids that have to start taking care of them
Like "Hey mom, get to work on time"
And "Hey dad, would you come home tonight?"
And "The both of you, stop drinking so much wine"
And they say, "Blah, blah, blah, blah"
And they say, "Blah, blah, blah"
They give us truth deceiving
I don't think that's truth at all
And they say, "Blah, blah, blah, blah"
And they say, "Blah, blah, blah"
They give us love that's leaving
I don't think that's love
-- "Sour Milk" by Wild Sweet Orange, from We Have Cause To Be Uneasy"
Friday, October 28, 2011
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
applying makeup
Yesterday morning, one of our residents was not allowed access to her makeup as a result of her poor behavior. She went to school and some stupid boy made a comment about her being ugly. Whether his statement was a response to her uncovered face or a petty, first-grade comeback from a high school student was irrelevant. My resident felt exposed and decided that she would rather skip school for the rest of the day than be seen without her covering.
I'll be honest, I generally hate makeup. I understand its usefulness, and have occasionally seen it applied in ways that accentuate amazing qualities. But as a whole, it seems to be more commonly applied to fix the characteristics that women find least presentable. I understand that a woman desires to be presentable and accepted as beautiful, so I can only speak from a dude-point-of-view: I want to find a woman beautiful as she is, rather than what she must make herself to be.
Later in the evening, I was struggling with another resident that typically gives me the most resistance. The most simple direction can lead her to become frustrated with me, and she approaches our relationship differently than she does with other staff. This time, I upset her good when she was given a consequence for using foul language. After a long rant (to which I did not reply), she sat in a chair to cool down. She finally addressed me in a calm voice, only to ask if she could call someone else since she couldn't talk to me.
I used this moment to address the heart of our problem. She doesn't trust me because she doesn't know me, but she doesn't know me because she doesn't trust me. I began pouring from my heart how her actions -- and my "job obligation" to her actions -- were driving a wedge between us. She had drawn some faulty conclusions about me based on perceptions she had made. She felt she was being targeted, and that I was bent on seeing her fail. Each time she saw my initials next to a consequence, she assumed it was my decision alone, and not one made by the entire team.
As I began to express from my heart the false judgments that were being made, I became a bit glassy eyed. It was "unprofessional" for me to get choked up at work, but for the first time, the resident was able to see that our struggle (and its resolution) meant something to me. I wasn't just a cold body intent on making her life miserable; I was a caring adult that was just as frustrated as she was.
On the way home, I thought about my post from Saturday. I believe that I've taken a sense of pride in being unshaken by the wind and waves, giving others the impression that I do not feel as they do. This is why the "hero complex" has bothered me so greatly: I know that I'm being evaluated on my costume and not the beauty (or mess) inside.
There's a disconnect between the strong, unblemished face we want people to see and the purified face that we want to admire. A superhero rarely gets the girl because he wrestles to uphold the identity and strength of his character while she longs to know the man underneath. In each of these stories, the man determines that the need for a hero outweighs his personal desire to be known unveiled.
If I take off the makeup, I must face the fear of being vulnerable. The world will see my pimples, scars, and discolorations. My bedhead will rest above these puffy, tired eyes. The mask will become useless when I am first exposed, because everyone will know that my strength is a facade. You will not forget the ugly tears that fall upon real flesh.
I'm tired of hating what I've become, while the original image lies beneath.
I'll be honest, I generally hate makeup. I understand its usefulness, and have occasionally seen it applied in ways that accentuate amazing qualities. But as a whole, it seems to be more commonly applied to fix the characteristics that women find least presentable. I understand that a woman desires to be presentable and accepted as beautiful, so I can only speak from a dude-point-of-view: I want to find a woman beautiful as she is, rather than what she must make herself to be.
Later in the evening, I was struggling with another resident that typically gives me the most resistance. The most simple direction can lead her to become frustrated with me, and she approaches our relationship differently than she does with other staff. This time, I upset her good when she was given a consequence for using foul language. After a long rant (to which I did not reply), she sat in a chair to cool down. She finally addressed me in a calm voice, only to ask if she could call someone else since she couldn't talk to me.
I used this moment to address the heart of our problem. She doesn't trust me because she doesn't know me, but she doesn't know me because she doesn't trust me. I began pouring from my heart how her actions -- and my "job obligation" to her actions -- were driving a wedge between us. She had drawn some faulty conclusions about me based on perceptions she had made. She felt she was being targeted, and that I was bent on seeing her fail. Each time she saw my initials next to a consequence, she assumed it was my decision alone, and not one made by the entire team.
As I began to express from my heart the false judgments that were being made, I became a bit glassy eyed. It was "unprofessional" for me to get choked up at work, but for the first time, the resident was able to see that our struggle (and its resolution) meant something to me. I wasn't just a cold body intent on making her life miserable; I was a caring adult that was just as frustrated as she was.
On the way home, I thought about my post from Saturday. I believe that I've taken a sense of pride in being unshaken by the wind and waves, giving others the impression that I do not feel as they do. This is why the "hero complex" has bothered me so greatly: I know that I'm being evaluated on my costume and not the beauty (or mess) inside.
There's a disconnect between the strong, unblemished face we want people to see and the purified face that we want to admire. A superhero rarely gets the girl because he wrestles to uphold the identity and strength of his character while she longs to know the man underneath. In each of these stories, the man determines that the need for a hero outweighs his personal desire to be known unveiled.
If I take off the makeup, I must face the fear of being vulnerable. The world will see my pimples, scars, and discolorations. My bedhead will rest above these puffy, tired eyes. The mask will become useless when I am first exposed, because everyone will know that my strength is a facade. You will not forget the ugly tears that fall upon real flesh.
I'm tired of hating what I've become, while the original image lies beneath.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
romantic blind spot
During my Facebook days, one of my co-workers was tagging friends on an "identity" poster, one that asked her to specify which friend is best characterized by each Disney character:
Crude and immature? Yes, but isn't that the heart of Facebook fun? Having been tagged myself, I scanned across the poster, awaiting the identity that my unbelieving friend had given me. My jaw clenched and my nostrils flared as my mouse rested on an all too familiar destination.
"The One That Saves The Day"
Everyone that knows me knows that I hate this. Fell free to call me a rogue, a loner, or a thinker. Jokingly refer to me as bipolar, moody, or intense. Openly question my discontent or my random state of melancholy. I will bear no offense. Allow me to be anything but the hero.
I was driving to work a couple days ago, listening to my autumn tunes. While never one of my favorite Simon and Garfunkel songs, the following lyrics rang profoundly that cool morning:
Let's look at my track history. I have cared for two women deeply: both under 5'0 tall, both too reckless with their hearts, both prior victims of abuse, both trying to get their spiritual lives in order after mistakes, both fully willing to let me be their perfect man...
Big problem: I couldn't save them. They were never mine to save. The minute I let down my guard, transitioning from a strong and noble god to a fractured man with emotional needs, they were finished. Sure, had I never attempted to usurp God's position, they may have never been interested in me at all. But what dysfunction would cause me to place that level of pressure on myself...or participate in that level of spiritual corruption?
I recognize that I don't trust women to love me for who I am. I will forever be incapable of the "dangling conversation," because worldly things have so little value to me. Likewise, being "The One That Saves The Day" leads me forever through a string of co-dependency. I struggle daily to ask this question, leading me to disregard her in prayer, but what is it that I want?
I want a real partner. Even as I glorify the idea in my mind, I don't want someone to simply fill space beside me. I desire a woman who will minister with me, worship with me, raise children with me, and never grow tired of speaking of the things of God, because these are the only things that truly interest me. And while I feel as if I must continuously dig for other worldly things to break the ice with 21st century women, I know that this is no way to begin a righteous relationship. If "we speak of things that matter," and it doesn't involve Christ or our mutual pursuit of Him, I'll feel like I'm wasting my time.
And I'll be perfectly honest, I don't know if what I want exists.
"The One That Saves The Day"
Everyone that knows me knows that I hate this. Fell free to call me a rogue, a loner, or a thinker. Jokingly refer to me as bipolar, moody, or intense. Openly question my discontent or my random state of melancholy. I will bear no offense. Allow me to be anything but the hero.
I was driving to work a couple days ago, listening to my autumn tunes. While never one of my favorite Simon and Garfunkel songs, the following lyrics rang profoundly that cool morning:
It's a still life water colorWhereas Simon wrote these words to describe the monotony of a deteriorating relationship, I found myself stricken with a bit of envy. I realized that for as long as I have despised the "hero" tag from women, I have never allowed myself to be anything else. I have a complete inability to engage in the small talk common with the modern couple -- the only time I have ever felt welcome or useful to a woman is when she has needed to be saved.
Of a now late afternoon
As the sun shines through the curtained lace
And shadows wash the room
And we sit and drink our coffee
Couched in our indifference
Like shells upon the shore
You can hear the ocean roar
In the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs
The borders of our lives
And you read your Emily Dickinson
And I my Robert Frost
And we note our place with bookmarkers
That measure what we've lost
Like a poem poorly written
We are verses out of rhythm
Couplets out of rhyme
In syncopated time
And the dangled conversation
And the superficial sighs
Are the borders of our lives
Yes, we speak of things that matter
With words that must be said
"Can analysis be worthwhile?"
"Is the theater really dead?"
And how the room is softly faded
And I only kiss your shadow
I cannot feel your hand
You're a stranger now unto me
Lost in the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs
In the borders of our lives
-- The Dangling Conversation
Let's look at my track history. I have cared for two women deeply: both under 5'0 tall, both too reckless with their hearts, both prior victims of abuse, both trying to get their spiritual lives in order after mistakes, both fully willing to let me be their perfect man...
Big problem: I couldn't save them. They were never mine to save. The minute I let down my guard, transitioning from a strong and noble god to a fractured man with emotional needs, they were finished. Sure, had I never attempted to usurp God's position, they may have never been interested in me at all. But what dysfunction would cause me to place that level of pressure on myself...or participate in that level of spiritual corruption?
I recognize that I don't trust women to love me for who I am. I will forever be incapable of the "dangling conversation," because worldly things have so little value to me. Likewise, being "The One That Saves The Day" leads me forever through a string of co-dependency. I struggle daily to ask this question, leading me to disregard her in prayer, but what is it that I want?
I want a real partner. Even as I glorify the idea in my mind, I don't want someone to simply fill space beside me. I desire a woman who will minister with me, worship with me, raise children with me, and never grow tired of speaking of the things of God, because these are the only things that truly interest me. And while I feel as if I must continuously dig for other worldly things to break the ice with 21st century women, I know that this is no way to begin a righteous relationship. If "we speak of things that matter," and it doesn't involve Christ or our mutual pursuit of Him, I'll feel like I'm wasting my time.
And I'll be perfectly honest, I don't know if what I want exists.
Friday, October 21, 2011
inseparable
While studying 1 John for the purity project, I was delighted when God gave me a rhema nugget that echoed so much of what He's been showing me over the past two years:
[This is where the teacher in me sometimes remains at conflict with the Word received through the Spirit. The teacher desires to share something sound, foolproof, and supported by the academic consensus; the Spirit wants me to receive His Word and proclaim it as truth.]
Thankfully, my study affirmed the word that God had already written on my heart. If John had meant "with Him," he wouldn't have said "with one another." John desires the reader to understand that our purity from sin reaches to the very core of His Church -- the holy unity we possess with one another is a result of legitimate repentance and confession of our sin.
If I own this truth, I also own these conclusions:
1) Only by living in Him can we also be in pure fellowship with other believers.
2) We cannot have unity with the Body while living in darkness.
1 John is a beautiful book because it never allows us to separate the act of knowing God from loving our brother. Simply stated, we cannot claim to know God if we do not love our brother, and we cannot love our brother without first knowing God. We cannot love God if we love the world, thus we cannot love our brother if we love the world.
If we are truly living according to His Spirit, our lives will bear the overflow of His love within us. We will be unable to contain our love, because we'll know the perfect love that has led us to repentance, salvation, and intimacy with Him. This is the love that "casts out fear" (4:18), because it speaks of the hope we have in Christ. When our "love" is driven by fear, insecurity, envy, or manipulation, we are not living according to this hope.
It is also appropriate to heed warning within the Body. If we seek spiritual brotherhood with unrepentant hearts that are unwilling to be exposed or purified by the Light, we are by result corrupting His Church. We have no brotherhood with those living in darkness. Yet every day, believers worship with those living according to the world as if we are trying to attain fellowship through our own faculties. We have been given no right to do this. God desires to present His Bride as pure, but if we redefine the terms of being associated with the priesthood, we offer something less than holy. As believers, we have no legitimate unity with darkness, as much as we'd love to feel "connected" or "relevant."
We should regularly ask God to evaluate our hearts and to bring any darkness to light. We must also be cognizant of the relationship our heart has with our fellowship. If we desire to love perfectly, we must first allow Him to purify us from unrighteousness. If we profess a love for Christ, it should be manifested in our love for mankind rather than a clinging to the world. And if we would seek communion in the Body, this wonderful gift can only be found among those already in communion with Him.
If we say that we have fellowship with Him and yet walk in the darkness, we lie and do not practice the truth; but if we walk in the Light as He Himself is in the Light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus His Son cleanses us from all sin. (1 John 1:6-7)In context with my research, I sought this passage to confirm our dependency on Christ to remain pure and clean. However, it was the other effect of living as light that leaped off the page:
...we have fellowship with one anotherWhile my initial reaction was that John is stating our fellowship with other believers is likewise dependent on our living in the Light -- a point that I would very much like to make -- I dug further to be certain. John could have just as well meant that we have fellowship with God, and a version or two may have poorly translated the term "one another."
[This is where the teacher in me sometimes remains at conflict with the Word received through the Spirit. The teacher desires to share something sound, foolproof, and supported by the academic consensus; the Spirit wants me to receive His Word and proclaim it as truth.]
Thankfully, my study affirmed the word that God had already written on my heart. If John had meant "with Him," he wouldn't have said "with one another." John desires the reader to understand that our purity from sin reaches to the very core of His Church -- the holy unity we possess with one another is a result of legitimate repentance and confession of our sin.
If I own this truth, I also own these conclusions:
1) Only by living in Him can we also be in pure fellowship with other believers.
2) We cannot have unity with the Body while living in darkness.
1 John is a beautiful book because it never allows us to separate the act of knowing God from loving our brother. Simply stated, we cannot claim to know God if we do not love our brother, and we cannot love our brother without first knowing God. We cannot love God if we love the world, thus we cannot love our brother if we love the world.
The one who says he is in the Light and yet hates his brother is in the darkness until now. The one who loves his brother abides in the Light and there is no cause for stumbling in him. But the one who hates his brother is in the darkness and walks in the darkness, and does not know where he is going because the darkness has blinded his eyes. (2:9-11)We must understand that we cannot live according to Him if we do not know Him. As much as the world has constructed its own definition of "love," we cannot serve our brother humbly, selflessly, and without expectation apart from Christ. The world's form of "love" may look similar in action, but the Light reveals the motivations of our hearts. The world's "love" always requires something in return.
Do not love the world nor the things in the world. If anyone loves the world, the love of the Father is not in him. (2:15)
By this the children of God and the children of the devil are obvious: anyone who does not practice righteousness is not of God, nor the one who does not love his brother. (3:10)
Do not be surprised, brethren, if the world hates you. We know that we have passed out of death into life, because we love the brethren. He who does not love abides in death. (3:13-14)
We know love by this, that He laid down His life for us; and we ought to lay down our lives for the brethren. But whoever has the world’s goods, and sees his brother in need and closes his heart against him, how does the love of God abide in him? (3:16-17)
Beloved, let us love one another, for love is from God; and everyone who loves is born of God and knows God. The one who does not love does not know God, for God is love. By this the love of God was manifested in us, that God has sent His only begotten Son into the world so that we might live through Him. In this is love, not that we loved God, but that He loved us and sent His Son to be the propitiation for our sins. Beloved, if God so loved us, we also ought to love one another. (4:7-11)
We love, because He first loved us. If someone says, “I love God,” and hates his brother, he is a liar; for the one who does not love his brother whom he has seen, cannot love God whom he has not seen. (4:19-20)
If we are truly living according to His Spirit, our lives will bear the overflow of His love within us. We will be unable to contain our love, because we'll know the perfect love that has led us to repentance, salvation, and intimacy with Him. This is the love that "casts out fear" (4:18), because it speaks of the hope we have in Christ. When our "love" is driven by fear, insecurity, envy, or manipulation, we are not living according to this hope.
It is also appropriate to heed warning within the Body. If we seek spiritual brotherhood with unrepentant hearts that are unwilling to be exposed or purified by the Light, we are by result corrupting His Church. We have no brotherhood with those living in darkness. Yet every day, believers worship with those living according to the world as if we are trying to attain fellowship through our own faculties. We have been given no right to do this. God desires to present His Bride as pure, but if we redefine the terms of being associated with the priesthood, we offer something less than holy. As believers, we have no legitimate unity with darkness, as much as we'd love to feel "connected" or "relevant."
We should regularly ask God to evaluate our hearts and to bring any darkness to light. We must also be cognizant of the relationship our heart has with our fellowship. If we desire to love perfectly, we must first allow Him to purify us from unrighteousness. If we profess a love for Christ, it should be manifested in our love for mankind rather than a clinging to the world. And if we would seek communion in the Body, this wonderful gift can only be found among those already in communion with Him.
Monday, October 17, 2011
there are some days with these girls...
...that they suck the very life out of me. And then I drive home alone in the peace and quiet, remembering that I'm the closest thing they have to an earthly father.
I'm just asking God that I could honorably justify the second realization while enduring the first, because these are the days that I feel the smallest.
I'm just asking God that I could honorably justify the second realization while enduring the first, because these are the days that I feel the smallest.
radical acceptance
My favorite distress skill that we teach our girls is radical acceptance, which is based on the principle that pain + avoidance of reality = suffering. Granted, our therapy is secular, and is far too incomplete outside a work of the Spirit, but I'm in favor of any word that encourages hurting people to accept truth and confront lies.
The truth is, the things in life through which we become most frustrated are often the areas that we cannot control. We cannot accept the fact that something hurtful is outside our control, so we try harder to either resolve the unresolvable or to bury our pain and pretend it never existed. Both of these lead to further suffering: the first directly, and the latter through the alternative life we must live to deny the circumstances of reality.
People get angry when I make direct links between unresolved pain and common worldly patterns of behavior, particularly among believers. Part of what makes the American gospel so attractive to suffering people is the thought that "the past is in the past," and it shouldn't need to be discussed further under grace. However, this is the difference between scripture's pursuit of redemption and the American value of tolerance.
Tolerance says we shouldn't draw conclusions (i.e. "judge") based on reality. Meanwhile, redemption desires to restore all things for the sake of His glory, pain included. Is it easy? Absolutely not -- hence the reason avoiding reality is the path of least resistance. But to truly comprehend God's amazing grace, we must do more than forget the past; we should be touched to such a degree that even our deepest wounds bear an amazing testimony of His restoring power and love.
I don't believe that we can know the truth without Him. Christ is the perfect model for One who knew the excruciating pain of rejection and betrayal that we often mask, yet never hid behind the right to be offended, disrespected, or embittered. Even while we were still sinners, Christ died for us. He knew the full score and still chose redemption over His personal rights and comfort.
While most of us have not come close to experiencing this level of persecution, we are still tempted to disconnect our pain, shame, or regret from the sinful patterns existing in our lives. We can become frustrated in battling the symptoms of our condition while avoiding the painful reality that remains. This is truly a life of unnecessary suffering. But God longs to touch those tender areas of greatest resistance and transform us into beacons of light that proclaim His glory through a sometimes unsavory story.
That's some radical acceptance.
The truth is, the things in life through which we become most frustrated are often the areas that we cannot control. We cannot accept the fact that something hurtful is outside our control, so we try harder to either resolve the unresolvable or to bury our pain and pretend it never existed. Both of these lead to further suffering: the first directly, and the latter through the alternative life we must live to deny the circumstances of reality.
People get angry when I make direct links between unresolved pain and common worldly patterns of behavior, particularly among believers. Part of what makes the American gospel so attractive to suffering people is the thought that "the past is in the past," and it shouldn't need to be discussed further under grace. However, this is the difference between scripture's pursuit of redemption and the American value of tolerance.
Tolerance says we shouldn't draw conclusions (i.e. "judge") based on reality. Meanwhile, redemption desires to restore all things for the sake of His glory, pain included. Is it easy? Absolutely not -- hence the reason avoiding reality is the path of least resistance. But to truly comprehend God's amazing grace, we must do more than forget the past; we should be touched to such a degree that even our deepest wounds bear an amazing testimony of His restoring power and love.
I don't believe that we can know the truth without Him. Christ is the perfect model for One who knew the excruciating pain of rejection and betrayal that we often mask, yet never hid behind the right to be offended, disrespected, or embittered. Even while we were still sinners, Christ died for us. He knew the full score and still chose redemption over His personal rights and comfort.
While most of us have not come close to experiencing this level of persecution, we are still tempted to disconnect our pain, shame, or regret from the sinful patterns existing in our lives. We can become frustrated in battling the symptoms of our condition while avoiding the painful reality that remains. This is truly a life of unnecessary suffering. But God longs to touch those tender areas of greatest resistance and transform us into beacons of light that proclaim His glory through a sometimes unsavory story.
That's some radical acceptance.
Friday, October 14, 2011
why would He want this?
For whatever reason, it has been painfully difficult to center my mind on Christ this week. It could be a number of things: engaging the spiritual battle with this consecration project, being annoyed with not finding a single piece of useful information written by a single male, "celebrating" another birthday with my parents at age 33, staying up too late / sleeping in too late, seeing indoor housework that I don't feel motivated to finish, etc.
He's certainly present, but I acknowledge that I've been resistant. My resistance has not been aggressive; I'm nonchalantly ignoring the Spirit as if He's deserving of my being aloof, same as I've related with every other friend lately. I feel as if my friends cannot empathize, so I'm tired of rehashing the same old discontented thoughts about His Kingdom here in the U.S. I feel as if my Father does understand but has decided to leave me on this earth anyway, so what's the use in ruining myself further for an audience of One?
Somewhere I've missed that the point for Him is to be with me. I'm not used to that. I've known God personally for fifteen years, and it's still hard for me to accept being wanted without offering a service. To my friends in elementary school I was popular and imaginative, to my friends in high school I was romantic and accepting, to my camp and small group kids I was cool and fun, to my youth group teens I was insightful and wise, and to the coffeehouse world I was a calming presence. I've rarely been chosen or sought for my heart -- when I have it's ended badly, whether for their misdeeds or my own.
To choose His Spirit is to respond to Something that has found me first. When I feel like my life is absent of fruit, I feel I have nothing to give Him of use. In reality, He never asked for that as a bargaining chip. He's pleased when I offer my life sacrificially, but my cleanliness was never a term of agreement for our relationship.
First, He is my Creator: I am a living manifestation of His glory and masculinity.
Second, He is my Redeemer: I am a saved and cleansed by His selfless act and the shedding of His blood.
Third, He is my Restorer: I am being molded and perfected according to His likeness and His original intent.
None of these roles say anything about what He gains from me. Am I comfortable engaging fully in a relationship where I am the sole benefactor? Or must I comprehend the treasure that I am to Him to accept the blessing of His continual presence? I don't know that I'll ever understand that on earth.
And I see where this same problem casts poison into my earthly relationships. One man has accepted the blessing of pouring into my life without return, and I find it difficult to even make a phone call for fear of being a burden. One hypothetical woman would serve as my grace in marriage, but instead I've pursued those that will feast on my spirit without reciprocation. When did I decide that I should not receive good gifts?
I don't think that I consciously decided this, but my faith is lacking. To place hope in receiving a love that considers my heart above my services is unprecedented and uncomfortable. I've come to assume that God and my loved ones don't want it. I know for a fact that this is a lie about God. He has endured some drastic measures to hold my heart. I cannot say for certain that a mortal would ever desire my heart. It is when I attribute this lack of faith to the assurance I have in my Father that our relationship becomes corrupt.
Maybe I should stop writing and begin praying...
He's certainly present, but I acknowledge that I've been resistant. My resistance has not been aggressive; I'm nonchalantly ignoring the Spirit as if He's deserving of my being aloof, same as I've related with every other friend lately. I feel as if my friends cannot empathize, so I'm tired of rehashing the same old discontented thoughts about His Kingdom here in the U.S. I feel as if my Father does understand but has decided to leave me on this earth anyway, so what's the use in ruining myself further for an audience of One?
Somewhere I've missed that the point for Him is to be with me. I'm not used to that. I've known God personally for fifteen years, and it's still hard for me to accept being wanted without offering a service. To my friends in elementary school I was popular and imaginative, to my friends in high school I was romantic and accepting, to my camp and small group kids I was cool and fun, to my youth group teens I was insightful and wise, and to the coffeehouse world I was a calming presence. I've rarely been chosen or sought for my heart -- when I have it's ended badly, whether for their misdeeds or my own.
To choose His Spirit is to respond to Something that has found me first. When I feel like my life is absent of fruit, I feel I have nothing to give Him of use. In reality, He never asked for that as a bargaining chip. He's pleased when I offer my life sacrificially, but my cleanliness was never a term of agreement for our relationship.
First, He is my Creator: I am a living manifestation of His glory and masculinity.
Second, He is my Redeemer: I am a saved and cleansed by His selfless act and the shedding of His blood.
Third, He is my Restorer: I am being molded and perfected according to His likeness and His original intent.
None of these roles say anything about what He gains from me. Am I comfortable engaging fully in a relationship where I am the sole benefactor? Or must I comprehend the treasure that I am to Him to accept the blessing of His continual presence? I don't know that I'll ever understand that on earth.
And I see where this same problem casts poison into my earthly relationships. One man has accepted the blessing of pouring into my life without return, and I find it difficult to even make a phone call for fear of being a burden. One hypothetical woman would serve as my grace in marriage, but instead I've pursued those that will feast on my spirit without reciprocation. When did I decide that I should not receive good gifts?
I don't think that I consciously decided this, but my faith is lacking. To place hope in receiving a love that considers my heart above my services is unprecedented and uncomfortable. I've come to assume that God and my loved ones don't want it. I know for a fact that this is a lie about God. He has endured some drastic measures to hold my heart. I cannot say for certain that a mortal would ever desire my heart. It is when I attribute this lack of faith to the assurance I have in my Father that our relationship becomes corrupt.
Maybe I should stop writing and begin praying...
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
soliciting your help
As many of you know, I am preparing a training on holiness, purity, and the process of consecration. I am currently lodged in the research stage, and my free time over the next four weeks will be heavily invested in this work.
While I am compiling, sorting, and writing this teaching, I'm open to any resources you may have at your disposal. If you have any well-written books, blogs, songs, short stories -- anything that pertains to the topic of holiness and purity -- I'd love to hear about them. I look forward to reading from a multitude of resources on various areas of purity: both classical and modern. And don't worry about stating the obvious; though I'm putting together a massive study on purity, I haven't read any Elisabeth Eliot. Shameful, I know...but that's where your suggestions are of help :)
When I finish my rough draft, I'm going to present the training to my folks in St. Louis for a trial run. I'll give y'all updates as it comes together. God has laid this heavy on my heart, and I'm super excited to jump into the topic with my full attention.
Thank you, my virtual friends!
ANTHONY
While I am compiling, sorting, and writing this teaching, I'm open to any resources you may have at your disposal. If you have any well-written books, blogs, songs, short stories -- anything that pertains to the topic of holiness and purity -- I'd love to hear about them. I look forward to reading from a multitude of resources on various areas of purity: both classical and modern. And don't worry about stating the obvious; though I'm putting together a massive study on purity, I haven't read any Elisabeth Eliot. Shameful, I know...but that's where your suggestions are of help :)
When I finish my rough draft, I'm going to present the training to my folks in St. Louis for a trial run. I'll give y'all updates as it comes together. God has laid this heavy on my heart, and I'm super excited to jump into the topic with my full attention.
Thank you, my virtual friends!
ANTHONY
Sunday, October 9, 2011
#1 - Today and beyond...
Praise the Lord -- we had a good day at work!
I left Wednesday night exhausted after my first marathon of days. Having endured three straight 12-hour shifts with a smile on my face, the girls saved their worst day for my last. Whatever level of success I might feel working with at-risk teens, the bad day can make me feel like a complete failure. Having to go back to work on my birthday, I was praying for a little comfort.
So I spent #33 working "girls night": an evening of primping, hair styling, and picture taking. Doesn't that beat all? The girls were beaming with confidence as they dressed up one another, while the lone male could do nothing but laugh and lend compliments for their fashion show.
Ladies and gentlemen, this is my life :)
I admit, there are days when it's hard not to evaluate myself according to the world's standard. When I do, it feels as if my life is traveling in reverse. Achieving ministerial "status" is what many believers work towards, and I've spent the past five years working away from it. Engaging Christ like a child means dismissing the idea that I am the one with something to offer.
This is the battle within me: one day reaching to the past for my sense of worth, the next progressing in faith behind closed doors as my legend dissipates. I've heard Christians say that they want to leave a legacy. Well, I did that by age 25; it's a chasing of the wind. We ought to desire leaving something that doesn't require us to look back -- we ought to bear fruit.
If my quieter life makes more reproducing disciples than the number of kids that answered my altar calls, isn't that a better story? If I had died years ago, the eulogy would have been substantial, but my ministry would have perished along with that pile of flesh. Today, my funeral would gather a handful of family and friends, but my spiritual descendants could be like the stars!
Why do I forget this? Why does my flesh covet the 300 "Happy Birthdays" that my former self would warrant? Why does social prostitution appear more gratifying than His will?
My struggle is tied to His Presence. The minute I see His wonderful face, the concerns of this world are ripped to shreds. They all seem so silly, so arbitrary. However, when I forget that my heavenly body has yet to be worn, I pledge allegiance to my past.
With my celebrations and feasting behind me, tomorrow is another day closer to eternity: a day without end. If by this fact alone, today is better than yesterday -- tomorrow is better yet. Its goodness is not conditioned by my work success or the relative importance of one calendar square. In the morning, October 10 will draw me closer to His Presence than my birthday has, and that will be glorious.
I left Wednesday night exhausted after my first marathon of days. Having endured three straight 12-hour shifts with a smile on my face, the girls saved their worst day for my last. Whatever level of success I might feel working with at-risk teens, the bad day can make me feel like a complete failure. Having to go back to work on my birthday, I was praying for a little comfort.
So I spent #33 working "girls night": an evening of primping, hair styling, and picture taking. Doesn't that beat all? The girls were beaming with confidence as they dressed up one another, while the lone male could do nothing but laugh and lend compliments for their fashion show.
Ladies and gentlemen, this is my life :)
I admit, there are days when it's hard not to evaluate myself according to the world's standard. When I do, it feels as if my life is traveling in reverse. Achieving ministerial "status" is what many believers work towards, and I've spent the past five years working away from it. Engaging Christ like a child means dismissing the idea that I am the one with something to offer.
This is the battle within me: one day reaching to the past for my sense of worth, the next progressing in faith behind closed doors as my legend dissipates. I've heard Christians say that they want to leave a legacy. Well, I did that by age 25; it's a chasing of the wind. We ought to desire leaving something that doesn't require us to look back -- we ought to bear fruit.
If my quieter life makes more reproducing disciples than the number of kids that answered my altar calls, isn't that a better story? If I had died years ago, the eulogy would have been substantial, but my ministry would have perished along with that pile of flesh. Today, my funeral would gather a handful of family and friends, but my spiritual descendants could be like the stars!
Why do I forget this? Why does my flesh covet the 300 "Happy Birthdays" that my former self would warrant? Why does social prostitution appear more gratifying than His will?
My struggle is tied to His Presence. The minute I see His wonderful face, the concerns of this world are ripped to shreds. They all seem so silly, so arbitrary. However, when I forget that my heavenly body has yet to be worn, I pledge allegiance to my past.
With my celebrations and feasting behind me, tomorrow is another day closer to eternity: a day without end. If by this fact alone, today is better than yesterday -- tomorrow is better yet. Its goodness is not conditioned by my work success or the relative importance of one calendar square. In the morning, October 10 will draw me closer to His Presence than my birthday has, and that will be glorious.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
#2 - Sunday, October 7, 2007
Four years ago this weekend, I was anointed to lead this "Solomon Generation" into a fresh move of the Spirit and the work of reconciliation He has appointed to us. I wrote about the specifics of that anointing here, so I'll refrain from regurgitation. Suffice it to say, I commonly feel like a kid being given the keys to a vehicle infinitely too large to drive...and being asked to take it for a spin.
I believe this is how God would have us follow. Whereas our American predecessors learned the limitations of their flesh and efficiently worked within those boundaries, God is calling us to reach beyond our sight, into a move we are too tiny to direct. Without His Spirit, His authority, His sovereignty, His guidance, and His grace, the kingdom work of our generation will pass away with little noise. We've seen the visible demonstrations of the church's ambition to make God known, but God would have this generation submit to Him as vessels of the physically impossible.
Are you willing? Whether you are capable is irrelevant, because He will decide what shall be used for His Purpose. If God chooses to manifest His power and presence through you, the only question is whether you will lay your life before Him to serve a noble use. He alone makes us pure, and He alone will make His message irresistible to the ears of your people. For you and I, this is all about posture: will we dismiss the clutter of the world to be filled to the brim by His Presence?
I want it all. Heaven forbid this body should perish without the entirety of my heart serving His Kingdom. The common things that comfort my flesh shall be eradicated one by one, leaving only the skin and bones that carry His Word to accompany His Spirit within me. What other use am I? If I make you laugh, but my people should perish, my hope is empty. If I am remembered fondly for my passion and imagination, but our generation contributes nothing to advance Him, for what purpose have I motivated?
This blog was named Solomon's Ledger because I believe that God will orchestrate volumes for the generation that seeks His face. I believe that we have been granted the opportunity and privilege to be that generation. With that privilege, we can do what we'd like. We can defend our position and establishment to the death, attaining nothing but the worldly honor of our zeal, or we can aggressively advance His domain among creation through whatever unforeseen move He directs. One is a recognized entity; we know exactly what will be reaped by doing the same thing. The other is a lesson in humility, faith, trust, and intimacy: the breathtaking motion of hearts anxiously awaiting His next word.
I believe this is how God would have us follow. Whereas our American predecessors learned the limitations of their flesh and efficiently worked within those boundaries, God is calling us to reach beyond our sight, into a move we are too tiny to direct. Without His Spirit, His authority, His sovereignty, His guidance, and His grace, the kingdom work of our generation will pass away with little noise. We've seen the visible demonstrations of the church's ambition to make God known, but God would have this generation submit to Him as vessels of the physically impossible.
Are you willing? Whether you are capable is irrelevant, because He will decide what shall be used for His Purpose. If God chooses to manifest His power and presence through you, the only question is whether you will lay your life before Him to serve a noble use. He alone makes us pure, and He alone will make His message irresistible to the ears of your people. For you and I, this is all about posture: will we dismiss the clutter of the world to be filled to the brim by His Presence?
I want it all. Heaven forbid this body should perish without the entirety of my heart serving His Kingdom. The common things that comfort my flesh shall be eradicated one by one, leaving only the skin and bones that carry His Word to accompany His Spirit within me. What other use am I? If I make you laugh, but my people should perish, my hope is empty. If I am remembered fondly for my passion and imagination, but our generation contributes nothing to advance Him, for what purpose have I motivated?
This blog was named Solomon's Ledger because I believe that God will orchestrate volumes for the generation that seeks His face. I believe that we have been granted the opportunity and privilege to be that generation. With that privilege, we can do what we'd like. We can defend our position and establishment to the death, attaining nothing but the worldly honor of our zeal, or we can aggressively advance His domain among creation through whatever unforeseen move He directs. One is a recognized entity; we know exactly what will be reaped by doing the same thing. The other is a lesson in humility, faith, trust, and intimacy: the breathtaking motion of hearts anxiously awaiting His next word.
Friday, October 7, 2011
#3 - Friday, October 5-11, 1989-96; 2011
Even if you hate football, persist through the early portion of this post. I promise there's a point.
For the sake of relevancy, I felt the need to abandon chronology and my own rules, to present a day that has been the greatest common denominator of every birthday lived in Bremen, IN.
When two small community schools equaling 1000 students were mentioned together as one of ten "Unrivaled Rivalries" by Sports Illustrated (November 14, 1994), I was a sophomore in high school. Ten days earlier, the Bremen Lions had stunned the previously undefeated and top-ranked Jimtown Jimmies 27-0 for the football sectional title, in route to their second state championship.
I've never been an athlete. God designed me to be short and slow, and He decided in the long run I'd be better served by a sharp mind. But I've always loved a good-natured and passionate competition, thus I spent the Friday of my birthday week watching football...for eight consecutive years.
When Bremen first entered the Northern State Conference in 1989, we were already well acquainted with Jimtown. They had defeated us at regional in 1987 (one of the first games I remember attending), finishing runner-up in the state; they were knocked off prematurely in 1988 when we finished runner-up in the state.
In 1989, we split our meetings, but Bremen claimed its first state championship two years ahead of our growing rival. The next six years were a see-saw back and forth -- the underdog winning more often than not. Each game had something important on the line, and the intensity was thicker than anything I experienced as an adolescent.
I find it fitting that as the Bremen team declined heavily in the years since I moved away, they have found success upon my return. This year's team stood 7-0 entering tonight's matchup, and there was hardly an unclaimed bleacher seat to be found. A healthy percentage of our town of 5000 made the trip north to see our community represented.
It wasn't the Bremen victory alone that made this evening memorable, and tonight was no more iconic than the other twenty times I have watched these teams battle. But this silly game is a strong link to a simpler childhood, one that didn't need a billion distractions to keep me from feeling alone on my birthday. I remember being part of something larger than myself, and it gave me greater joy than any gift.
As I've written this year about feeling disconnected from my St. Louis church family, I think I miss that level of belonging: recognizing the fruit of something experienced together and receiving a joy shared by the whole. In the end, a football program is meaningless, but Christ's Bride has been put on display to present His glory and fame to the world. It doesn't require a respected publication to proclaim the significance of the Church's mission, any more than a football team needs national press to validate the magnitude of its rivalry. It is our passion and zeal for the Kingdom that shouts of God's fervent move among mankind.
On either account, it's good to feel at home.
For the sake of relevancy, I felt the need to abandon chronology and my own rules, to present a day that has been the greatest common denominator of every birthday lived in Bremen, IN.
When two small community schools equaling 1000 students were mentioned together as one of ten "Unrivaled Rivalries" by Sports Illustrated (November 14, 1994), I was a sophomore in high school. Ten days earlier, the Bremen Lions had stunned the previously undefeated and top-ranked Jimtown Jimmies 27-0 for the football sectional title, in route to their second state championship.
I've never been an athlete. God designed me to be short and slow, and He decided in the long run I'd be better served by a sharp mind. But I've always loved a good-natured and passionate competition, thus I spent the Friday of my birthday week watching football...for eight consecutive years.
When Bremen first entered the Northern State Conference in 1989, we were already well acquainted with Jimtown. They had defeated us at regional in 1987 (one of the first games I remember attending), finishing runner-up in the state; they were knocked off prematurely in 1988 when we finished runner-up in the state.
In 1989, we split our meetings, but Bremen claimed its first state championship two years ahead of our growing rival. The next six years were a see-saw back and forth -- the underdog winning more often than not. Each game had something important on the line, and the intensity was thicker than anything I experienced as an adolescent.
I find it fitting that as the Bremen team declined heavily in the years since I moved away, they have found success upon my return. This year's team stood 7-0 entering tonight's matchup, and there was hardly an unclaimed bleacher seat to be found. A healthy percentage of our town of 5000 made the trip north to see our community represented.
It wasn't the Bremen victory alone that made this evening memorable, and tonight was no more iconic than the other twenty times I have watched these teams battle. But this silly game is a strong link to a simpler childhood, one that didn't need a billion distractions to keep me from feeling alone on my birthday. I remember being part of something larger than myself, and it gave me greater joy than any gift.
As I've written this year about feeling disconnected from my St. Louis church family, I think I miss that level of belonging: recognizing the fruit of something experienced together and receiving a joy shared by the whole. In the end, a football program is meaningless, but Christ's Bride has been put on display to present His glory and fame to the world. It doesn't require a respected publication to proclaim the significance of the Church's mission, any more than a football team needs national press to validate the magnitude of its rivalry. It is our passion and zeal for the Kingdom that shouts of God's fervent move among mankind.
On either account, it's good to feel at home.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
#4 - Friday, September 8, 2006
I spent the first few days in Kansas City mapping out the region. A missionary couple housed me in "the hood" until I could find an apartment; I drove into the commercial district each late afternoon and parked my car for the evening. KC provides free parking in its upscale district, and the weather was wonderful for exploring the rest on foot.
In the homegrown Westport district, I stop at Broadway Café** for a latte. It's my kind of place: no need for product logos, fashionable cups, or barista flare -- just quality espresso at a quality price. I sit outside the storefront, and choose the only empty steel chair. To my right, a man is smoking clove cigarettes and sketching. To my left, two men engage in heavy debate over the upcoming mayoral election. Just a week before, I was a youth pastor. At the ripe age of 27, I am receiving my first glance at everyday life.
[This is what the world does while I "operate" the church?]
Jarrod approaches me first and sees my Bible. He's wearing an interesting covering and begins sharing his salvation testimony. He speaks boldly about how the church has lifted up its leaders as in the days of the tower of Babel. A tower is a high and visible symbol with little foundation. Jarrod shares that just as Americans placed George Washington on this shaky pedestal, we do with leaders today. I mull over the street-side prophesy for some time.
Kevin calls to me next, a 20-something man asking to borrow my cell phone. I innocently oblige, and he shares his story: out of a job, short on money, phone disconnected, his own child estranged, getting off the bottle. His friend arrives from a long day at work and engages in comical (and colorful) repartee. A few more f-bombs than I'm used to hearing during worship service, but I'm enjoying myself in the new environment. He asks what I do for a living. I tell him I'm an unemployed minister hoping to get a job at this fine café. [F-bombs of disbelief.] We discuss Jesus and His Church for a while, and the man says that he wishes he could have one without the other. I tell him that seems to be the consensus around here.
By this point, there are four guys talking, and another man with a SWEET Richard Dean Anderson mullet parks his DMC-12 in front. [This one couldn't fly.] We walk around admiring his machinery, and he responds like he's used to it. The other guys ask if I'd like to head to their apartment to play dominoes, or "bones" as they dub them. I reply that I'd love to, but didn't know how. These guys had apparently learned in prison, and all of them were at some stage of sobriety, living out their probation together to hold one another accountable. This, in fact, is probably the wisest thing these men have ever done.
We play dominoes until the wee hours of the evening, and I inform them that I need to get going. They exchange hugs and treat me like I've known them for years. These are the scattered, lost, and broken. These are the men I have never known. This is my generation.
*************************
**Funny: I remember looking at this website five years ago and being intimidated by their latte art, having never done any at Sufficient. I wasn't quite alternative enough for Broadway to hire me, but looking back today, my Picasso's training makes their pics look like my average work. I'm just saying.
In the homegrown Westport district, I stop at Broadway Café** for a latte. It's my kind of place: no need for product logos, fashionable cups, or barista flare -- just quality espresso at a quality price. I sit outside the storefront, and choose the only empty steel chair. To my right, a man is smoking clove cigarettes and sketching. To my left, two men engage in heavy debate over the upcoming mayoral election. Just a week before, I was a youth pastor. At the ripe age of 27, I am receiving my first glance at everyday life.
[This is what the world does while I "operate" the church?]
Jarrod approaches me first and sees my Bible. He's wearing an interesting covering and begins sharing his salvation testimony. He speaks boldly about how the church has lifted up its leaders as in the days of the tower of Babel. A tower is a high and visible symbol with little foundation. Jarrod shares that just as Americans placed George Washington on this shaky pedestal, we do with leaders today. I mull over the street-side prophesy for some time.
Kevin calls to me next, a 20-something man asking to borrow my cell phone. I innocently oblige, and he shares his story: out of a job, short on money, phone disconnected, his own child estranged, getting off the bottle. His friend arrives from a long day at work and engages in comical (and colorful) repartee. A few more f-bombs than I'm used to hearing during worship service, but I'm enjoying myself in the new environment. He asks what I do for a living. I tell him I'm an unemployed minister hoping to get a job at this fine café. [F-bombs of disbelief.] We discuss Jesus and His Church for a while, and the man says that he wishes he could have one without the other. I tell him that seems to be the consensus around here.
By this point, there are four guys talking, and another man with a SWEET Richard Dean Anderson mullet parks his DMC-12 in front. [This one couldn't fly.] We walk around admiring his machinery, and he responds like he's used to it. The other guys ask if I'd like to head to their apartment to play dominoes, or "bones" as they dub them. I reply that I'd love to, but didn't know how. These guys had apparently learned in prison, and all of them were at some stage of sobriety, living out their probation together to hold one another accountable. This, in fact, is probably the wisest thing these men have ever done.
We play dominoes until the wee hours of the evening, and I inform them that I need to get going. They exchange hugs and treat me like I've known them for years. These are the scattered, lost, and broken. These are the men I have never known. This is my generation.
*************************
**Funny: I remember looking at this website five years ago and being intimidated by their latte art, having never done any at Sufficient. I wasn't quite alternative enough for Broadway to hire me, but looking back today, my Picasso's training makes their pics look like my average work. I'm just saying.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
#5 - Saturday, March 29, 2003
I'm a strange bird. Of all the things I should expect to miss since walking away from youth ministry, you'd never consider this to be near the top of my list:
I miss the fifteen passenger van.
It's funny to me. I led four different Spring Break trips to Florida: three of them were prominently sunny, staying in beachfront dormitories, with well rehearsed worship services. The first was rainy, cold, smaller, and less structured. Which one wound up being my favorite?
A few years after attending the St. Mark youth group during memorable day #8, I came to visit on a Sunday morning. I had recently been jaded by church politics during my ministry internship, and having found my "church home" back at camp, I figured I would quietly attend St. Mark that summer. My Bethel College worship leader led their worship, and a good number of their profs attended the church, so it was a comfortable place to visit. I had no intention of sticking around.
As the end of the summer rolled around, the youth pastor approached me and asked if I'd be willing to spend time with the kids, since we had already established a relationship with one another. He presented it as a win/win: he received a seasoned volunteer for whatever time God allowed, and I had a "resting place" to remain in service while I waited for Him to redeem my understanding of ministry. He told me that I could speak whenever the Lord placed something on my heart, and I would have his blessing to leave whenever God called me elsewhere.
Give an apostle the freedom to build a foundation and leave, and he'll seize it by the horns.
Nine months later, the group was about to take their annual Florida trip, and the youth pastor was expecting his second son. He couldn't risk being absent in the chance of an early delivery, so he asked if I could go. My vacation time was cleared, and it was a go.
There are kids that you will always remember fondly in ministry, but even rarer are the special groups that gel as a functioning body. I will remember that 14-hour drive for the laughter, the music, the fireworks, the food (YOU WANT TWO BIG N' NASTIES?!?), the flat tire, and the atypical lack of drama. Every one of these kids wanted to be together, and each of them held a special affinity for the group as a single unit.
We didn't need sunshine, dry sand, or live music to create the perfect environment for the Spirit of God. All we needed was one Body, and a van that would carry us to any destination.
I miss the fifteen passenger van.
It's funny to me. I led four different Spring Break trips to Florida: three of them were prominently sunny, staying in beachfront dormitories, with well rehearsed worship services. The first was rainy, cold, smaller, and less structured. Which one wound up being my favorite?
A few years after attending the St. Mark youth group during memorable day #8, I came to visit on a Sunday morning. I had recently been jaded by church politics during my ministry internship, and having found my "church home" back at camp, I figured I would quietly attend St. Mark that summer. My Bethel College worship leader led their worship, and a good number of their profs attended the church, so it was a comfortable place to visit. I had no intention of sticking around.
As the end of the summer rolled around, the youth pastor approached me and asked if I'd be willing to spend time with the kids, since we had already established a relationship with one another. He presented it as a win/win: he received a seasoned volunteer for whatever time God allowed, and I had a "resting place" to remain in service while I waited for Him to redeem my understanding of ministry. He told me that I could speak whenever the Lord placed something on my heart, and I would have his blessing to leave whenever God called me elsewhere.
Give an apostle the freedom to build a foundation and leave, and he'll seize it by the horns.
Nine months later, the group was about to take their annual Florida trip, and the youth pastor was expecting his second son. He couldn't risk being absent in the chance of an early delivery, so he asked if I could go. My vacation time was cleared, and it was a go.
There are kids that you will always remember fondly in ministry, but even rarer are the special groups that gel as a functioning body. I will remember that 14-hour drive for the laughter, the music, the fireworks, the food (YOU WANT TWO BIG N' NASTIES?!?), the flat tire, and the atypical lack of drama. Every one of these kids wanted to be together, and each of them held a special affinity for the group as a single unit.
We didn't need sunshine, dry sand, or live music to create the perfect environment for the Spirit of God. All we needed was one Body, and a van that would carry us to any destination.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
#6 - Thursday, February 14, 2002
Every pattern of behavior is established somewhere...
I totally get it: relationships are hard for everyone. My baggage and my hurts probably pale in comparison to most, and I've guarded myself from further pain by abstaining from romance in general. I don't know what it means to physically and emotionally connect with a woman through a sexual act, and I'm grateful that God has extended me that grace.
But our hearts are peculiar animals, and we usually cannot convince them what should or should not make them hurt. I could spend all day being told how wise I am in giving relationship advice, but I know where my own patterns are still skewed. I'd like to hope that I can speak into the lives of others with spiritual discernment and objectivity, but I haven't made enough practical use of my principles to grant full assurance. I must trust that God will make me His vessel, despite my brokenness.
I met Heather at a party during the year of my ministry internship. We fell for one another pretty fast. I hadn't dated since high school, and she was still healing from an abusive relationship a couple years prior. We shared the same interests and felt amazingly at ease with one another. Years later, after reestablishing a friendship with one another, she confessed how comfortable she was sharing silence with me. For a girl with an amazing gift for gab, this was a special honor.
That Valentine's Day, I had been scheduled to work until 9pm at Woodies, so I made dinner reservations for 10:30. We doubled with her cousin and her cousin's boyfriend. I brought Heather a single red rose, with a handwritten letter wrapped around the stem. Heather created a bouquet of "encouragement flowers" out of pipe cleaners and was shyly concerned all night that I wouldn't like them. I bought her dinner at Tippecanoe Place, one of the finest restaurants in South Bend. The night was beautiful, magical, and innocently romantic.
As I was driving Heather back to her cousin's apartment, I told her that stories like ours rarely continue. She was wide eyed on account of the evening, and assured me that we could maintain this level of intensity long-term. It was a couple months before her past was rehashed by people back home, and she grew scared that our relationship would become as unhealthy as the others she had endured. Suddenly, she felt trapped by the very intensity that drew her to me.
I can share this story with a great deal of grace and forgiveness. On the other side of my own baggage, I know how my heart and my mind are often not aligned. My heart can be crying out for its deepest longings, while my head wants nothing more than to resist the potential for heartache. It is not unforgiveness or bitterness that lingers, but the difficult task of battling nearly ten years of reinforced lies. I want to believe that my heart's desire can be matched. I want to believe that someone would have the same level of care for my life as I have for theirs. I don't want to begin a relationship because I can, or I should, or because someone is interested. I don't want her to complete me, for I am fully complete. I want her to be good. My service for God should be enhanced and His glory more greatly manifested through my union with her.
It has been hard work reviving what were once dormant feelings. I pray for the grace of a woman who admires that hard work, rather than despises what I am yet to be.
I totally get it: relationships are hard for everyone. My baggage and my hurts probably pale in comparison to most, and I've guarded myself from further pain by abstaining from romance in general. I don't know what it means to physically and emotionally connect with a woman through a sexual act, and I'm grateful that God has extended me that grace.
But our hearts are peculiar animals, and we usually cannot convince them what should or should not make them hurt. I could spend all day being told how wise I am in giving relationship advice, but I know where my own patterns are still skewed. I'd like to hope that I can speak into the lives of others with spiritual discernment and objectivity, but I haven't made enough practical use of my principles to grant full assurance. I must trust that God will make me His vessel, despite my brokenness.
I met Heather at a party during the year of my ministry internship. We fell for one another pretty fast. I hadn't dated since high school, and she was still healing from an abusive relationship a couple years prior. We shared the same interests and felt amazingly at ease with one another. Years later, after reestablishing a friendship with one another, she confessed how comfortable she was sharing silence with me. For a girl with an amazing gift for gab, this was a special honor.
That Valentine's Day, I had been scheduled to work until 9pm at Woodies, so I made dinner reservations for 10:30. We doubled with her cousin and her cousin's boyfriend. I brought Heather a single red rose, with a handwritten letter wrapped around the stem. Heather created a bouquet of "encouragement flowers" out of pipe cleaners and was shyly concerned all night that I wouldn't like them. I bought her dinner at Tippecanoe Place, one of the finest restaurants in South Bend. The night was beautiful, magical, and innocently romantic.
As I was driving Heather back to her cousin's apartment, I told her that stories like ours rarely continue. She was wide eyed on account of the evening, and assured me that we could maintain this level of intensity long-term. It was a couple months before her past was rehashed by people back home, and she grew scared that our relationship would become as unhealthy as the others she had endured. Suddenly, she felt trapped by the very intensity that drew her to me.
I can share this story with a great deal of grace and forgiveness. On the other side of my own baggage, I know how my heart and my mind are often not aligned. My heart can be crying out for its deepest longings, while my head wants nothing more than to resist the potential for heartache. It is not unforgiveness or bitterness that lingers, but the difficult task of battling nearly ten years of reinforced lies. I want to believe that my heart's desire can be matched. I want to believe that someone would have the same level of care for my life as I have for theirs. I don't want to begin a relationship because I can, or I should, or because someone is interested. I don't want her to complete me, for I am fully complete. I want her to be good. My service for God should be enhanced and His glory more greatly manifested through my union with her.
It has been hard work reviving what were once dormant feelings. I pray for the grace of a woman who admires that hard work, rather than despises what I am yet to be.
Monday, October 3, 2011
#7 - Wednesday, March 7, 2001
I received my greatest moments in college as a result of joining concert choir. During the first week of my freshman year, a guy down the hall said that he was going to choir auditions, and he asked if I'd like to tag along. I said "Okay, that sounds like something," and auditioned purely on a whim.
Nearly four years later, I had been to the Pacific Northwest, the upper Great Lakes, and had sung in Carnegie Hall on account of this "whim." My senior year, our choir planned a spring break tour on the Hawaiian islands. Trust me, I'd never been so excited to leave the Indiana cold.
After spending some time touring the Big Island (and drinking my first cup of 100% Kona!), we took a puddle-hopper to Kauai. Never in my life have I seen such a beautiful place. Each stop was wonderful: the food was fantastic, the sunsets were majestic, and our hosts were incredibly grateful to have us. As we traveled around the island to stop at one of the larger churches on our tour, we were given our host home assignments.
Eight of us men were incredibly disappointed when we discovered we would not have a host. We determined that we were specifically chosen because of our perceived ability to "rough it," thus we were stuck in a seldom used church parsonage in Koloa, HI, while our peers received the usual hospitality of a nice bed, a hot shower, and a large breakfast.
When we arrived at the church, we could see why it was chosen for our tour. The sanctuary would have barely held a third of us, but the people of the church had been kind enough to set an entire banquet table full of junkfood, for those that had now dubbed themselves the "Crazy Eights." A pile of donuts, chips, and drinks would have to be sufficient during our stay. The church had a small "closet" shower, and we didn't have any transportation to show us around the village.
Hungry from the travel, we decided to walk it. As we entered the small village of less than 2000, we found that every restaurant was closed, save the bars -- sort of an issue for a group of Bethelites. We decided to browse anyway and ended up singing some Boyz II Men harmonies to a pair of women in a custom soap shop. We didn't get a meal, but we did end up with free soap :)
The next day, we were driven to the beach. Compared to every other stay, this beach blew the others out of the water. The way the colors burst when the sun hit the water was breathtaking, and the beach itself was less densely populated than the touristy areas.
That evening, a group of around fifty from the church that housed us came to the beach for a worship service. We didn't have a piano to sing our entire performance, but we were able to oblige with a few a cappella pieces. As we surrounded the church body under a pavilion on the beach, we began singing Randall Thompson's Alleluia.
The perfect blend of our voices, the beach, the sunset, and the Spirit living in this congregation allowed His Presence to fall heavily upon us. Without question, it was the most profound time of worship I have experienced on this side of heaven.
[BTW: I've already decided that I will be marrying my future wife on that beach...I just hope that none of you are expecting a wedding invitation :) ]
Nearly four years later, I had been to the Pacific Northwest, the upper Great Lakes, and had sung in Carnegie Hall on account of this "whim." My senior year, our choir planned a spring break tour on the Hawaiian islands. Trust me, I'd never been so excited to leave the Indiana cold.
After spending some time touring the Big Island (and drinking my first cup of 100% Kona!), we took a puddle-hopper to Kauai. Never in my life have I seen such a beautiful place. Each stop was wonderful: the food was fantastic, the sunsets were majestic, and our hosts were incredibly grateful to have us. As we traveled around the island to stop at one of the larger churches on our tour, we were given our host home assignments.
Eight of us men were incredibly disappointed when we discovered we would not have a host. We determined that we were specifically chosen because of our perceived ability to "rough it," thus we were stuck in a seldom used church parsonage in Koloa, HI, while our peers received the usual hospitality of a nice bed, a hot shower, and a large breakfast.
When we arrived at the church, we could see why it was chosen for our tour. The sanctuary would have barely held a third of us, but the people of the church had been kind enough to set an entire banquet table full of junkfood, for those that had now dubbed themselves the "Crazy Eights." A pile of donuts, chips, and drinks would have to be sufficient during our stay. The church had a small "closet" shower, and we didn't have any transportation to show us around the village.
Hungry from the travel, we decided to walk it. As we entered the small village of less than 2000, we found that every restaurant was closed, save the bars -- sort of an issue for a group of Bethelites. We decided to browse anyway and ended up singing some Boyz II Men harmonies to a pair of women in a custom soap shop. We didn't get a meal, but we did end up with free soap :)
The next day, we were driven to the beach. Compared to every other stay, this beach blew the others out of the water. The way the colors burst when the sun hit the water was breathtaking, and the beach itself was less densely populated than the touristy areas.
That evening, a group of around fifty from the church that housed us came to the beach for a worship service. We didn't have a piano to sing our entire performance, but we were able to oblige with a few a cappella pieces. As we surrounded the church body under a pavilion on the beach, we began singing Randall Thompson's Alleluia.
The perfect blend of our voices, the beach, the sunset, and the Spirit living in this congregation allowed His Presence to fall heavily upon us. Without question, it was the most profound time of worship I have experienced on this side of heaven.
[BTW: I've already decided that I will be marrying my future wife on that beach...I just hope that none of you are expecting a wedding invitation :) ]
Sunday, October 2, 2011
#8 - Wednesday, October 13, 1999
During the summer of 1999, I had been suspended from my longtime summer camp job as a result of some sophomoric behavior the previous summer. Because my boss was generally pleased with my duties, he allowed the Teen Camp director to hire me at the end of the summer. Perhaps it was the perspective I gained from being away all year, but I had the most fantastic week ever. A dormitory mix that had me skeptical at first became a blessing: the perfect hodgepodge of musicians, athletes, academics, and outcasts.
On the third day of the week, a couple jocks that had volunteered to work children's church returned with a handful of children's books. In particular, they had grabbed Dr. Seuss titles. Primarily for reaction's sake, they asked me if I would read a Dr. Seuss book as a bedtime story. Having been a youngest child, I had never read a "bedtime story," and I certainly had never done so with 16-year-olds.
Miraculously, in contrast to the previous evenings, they rested soundly after I finished the first book. I decided to roll with it. For the next few nights, they returned to the dorm at 10:30, and I gave them 15 minutes to settle before they received their story. Continually reaping the same effective result, the teens began boasting to kids from the other dorms about their unconventional counselor.
The final evening as we laid in bed, I finished the story and asked if anyone had anything to share about their week. One of the older jocks shared with the others how he had judged them at the beginning of the week and was thankful that he got to know them all. One by one, these adolescent boys began sharing their gratitude for one another, and we decided to spend a little time in worship after the lights were turned off for the night.
I stayed in contact with a good number of these guys, so my heart broke immediately that October when I was given word that one of my boys (Chris) had died from a defect he unknowingly had since birth. I had personally never experienced a close death, so I timidly went to the viewing that Monday, not knowing how I would empathize. I was quickly welcomed by a crew of camp kids, many of which had come to know Chris better since camp, and were able to share a testimony of how he had grown in intimacy with Christ. They said that he was a changed man after returning, and that our dorm was as responsible for that as anyone.
We shared quite a few tears, and I received a phone call the next evening from Chris's youth pastor. He asked if I would be willing to come to their church that Wednesday to help with the grieving process. I figured it was the least I could do, so I was shocked when the church I was currently serving made it sound like a hassle for me to miss one Wednesday night. Inevitably, I didn't give them much of a choice, and I attended their memorial youth service.
Many of you may have lost someone close to you at an early age, and you might understand what a room full of fifty grieving kids might look like. It was heart-wrenching. Some parents attended as well, and it made for a very nice goodbye. It has been hard to reconcile many losses in my life, but it was clear that God was ready to reveal Himself by taking Chris.
Over the next few months, I received thank you notes from a few parents for my support, and Chris's friends spent a couple very heartfelt evenings with me at our denominational youth conference that December. In fact, the boy that was originally led by the Spirit to share at camp would pray for me the following summer as I committed my life to ministry. Few things are more memorable than young people grieving, but God divinely used Chris's life, death, and legacy to position me in a place where I could hear His call upon my life.
On the third day of the week, a couple jocks that had volunteered to work children's church returned with a handful of children's books. In particular, they had grabbed Dr. Seuss titles. Primarily for reaction's sake, they asked me if I would read a Dr. Seuss book as a bedtime story. Having been a youngest child, I had never read a "bedtime story," and I certainly had never done so with 16-year-olds.
Miraculously, in contrast to the previous evenings, they rested soundly after I finished the first book. I decided to roll with it. For the next few nights, they returned to the dorm at 10:30, and I gave them 15 minutes to settle before they received their story. Continually reaping the same effective result, the teens began boasting to kids from the other dorms about their unconventional counselor.
The final evening as we laid in bed, I finished the story and asked if anyone had anything to share about their week. One of the older jocks shared with the others how he had judged them at the beginning of the week and was thankful that he got to know them all. One by one, these adolescent boys began sharing their gratitude for one another, and we decided to spend a little time in worship after the lights were turned off for the night.
I stayed in contact with a good number of these guys, so my heart broke immediately that October when I was given word that one of my boys (Chris) had died from a defect he unknowingly had since birth. I had personally never experienced a close death, so I timidly went to the viewing that Monday, not knowing how I would empathize. I was quickly welcomed by a crew of camp kids, many of which had come to know Chris better since camp, and were able to share a testimony of how he had grown in intimacy with Christ. They said that he was a changed man after returning, and that our dorm was as responsible for that as anyone.
We shared quite a few tears, and I received a phone call the next evening from Chris's youth pastor. He asked if I would be willing to come to their church that Wednesday to help with the grieving process. I figured it was the least I could do, so I was shocked when the church I was currently serving made it sound like a hassle for me to miss one Wednesday night. Inevitably, I didn't give them much of a choice, and I attended their memorial youth service.
Many of you may have lost someone close to you at an early age, and you might understand what a room full of fifty grieving kids might look like. It was heart-wrenching. Some parents attended as well, and it made for a very nice goodbye. It has been hard to reconcile many losses in my life, but it was clear that God was ready to reveal Himself by taking Chris.
Over the next few months, I received thank you notes from a few parents for my support, and Chris's friends spent a couple very heartfelt evenings with me at our denominational youth conference that December. In fact, the boy that was originally led by the Spirit to share at camp would pray for me the following summer as I committed my life to ministry. Few things are more memorable than young people grieving, but God divinely used Chris's life, death, and legacy to position me in a place where I could hear His call upon my life.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
#9 - Saturday, September 6, 1997
A mere recognition of one’s sin is insufficient for salvation. Because we are saved by faith, through grace, I have a hard time understanding how one could believe in faith and be a recipient of grace, yet consider these as one would the contractual terms of an agreement. It is the very act of grace that compels and drives me to give my entirety to God.
I know that I have chosen the proverbial “road less traveled,” but how could I not? To believe that the only thing separating a believer from an unbeliever is the verbal terms of a prayer -- this is misconceived at best, and heresy at its worst. Grace is much more than God’s willingness to “look past” my sin. Grace is God’s deep and mysterious love provoking Him to resist serving the wages that I deserve -- and I deserve to die!
I didn't always understand my faith in this way. From the point of recognition and “the prayer of salvation” in 1992, I assumed that I was saved, and I wasn't too concerned with how I lived from that point forward. But scripture reveals to me that salvation is an ongoing action: that we are being perfected into the image of our Maker. I soon realized, I could not reflect the image of a God that I did not know.
I made a late decision to attend Bethel College in the fall of 1997. I was hardly a beacon of light for the Kingdom, but something (His Spirit) was calling me forth. I previously had every intention of attending a state school for journalism -- in choosing Bethel, I made a cognitive compromise. I told God that I would go, but as an Education major. I won’t describe the misery that accompanied my “compromise,” Needless to say, as I followed His hand, I was directed where He wanted me.
During the first full week of school, I made a special effort to know all of the people (i.e. girls) that could help me gratify my fleshly desires and soothe my insecurities. I became a favorite of the older female RAs, which gave me credence when I became interested in one of the girls on their floor. It was one of these RAs that invited me over to Shupe Hall for an evening prayer meeting.
My roommate went with me, and we entered the lounge expecting a mixed bag of motivations; a co-ed prayer meeting in a female dormitory will bring all sorts of guys out of the woodwork. God showed up instead. During our casual prayer, one spirit-led student felt it necessary to pray around the building and claim His territory. We did a “Jericho march” around Shupe while singing songs of praise. Gradually, more students began to join us -- the initial prayer group of fifteen grew to about fifty.
After deciding to do the same around the freshman guys dorm, we ended up out front -- instead we were led into a time of confession. As a few of us began to confess lifelong struggles with sin, a repentant heart was shared by the entire group, and the Holy Spirit began manifesting His power. [Bear in mind, the Missionary Church is one of those “we recognize the gifts, because scripturally we kind of have to, but if we focus on the likelihood of their abuse, we won‘t have to deal with them“ sort of denominations.] That night, in the presence of God and His people, I was filled with His Spirit and was claimed as His.
My initial struggle was understanding how identify with the world I had associated with for so long. Like Isaiah in chapter 6, I had seen the holiness of my God, and could do nothing else but give Him my life. Why He chose me in that place, at that time, I’m unsure. I must trust that He intimately understood the details of my call. But as He began to speak to me, giving me the ability to discern between that which is good and evil, I resisted this burden.
I looked around and saw my fellow Christians continuing to live their lives the way that I had before. I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t get back to that place: to laugh, to indulge in entertainment, to crack jokes that would make me accepted and the center of attention. It was if my personality had been changed overnight. And yet, because I saw my former life around me, I felt as if I was all alone in the transformation.
Over the next four years, it gradually grew “worse.“ People continued to ask what was wrong. They wondered about my mood swings: how could I go from old Anthony one minute into contemplative, burdened Anthony the next? I attempted to reason it out through counseling. But I could not erase from my mind or spirit that which I had seen and heard from the Lord. It was this holy discontent that led me to search for an explanation -- if being aware of the truth only made me miserable, why would He give me this “gift“?
I know that I have chosen the proverbial “road less traveled,” but how could I not? To believe that the only thing separating a believer from an unbeliever is the verbal terms of a prayer -- this is misconceived at best, and heresy at its worst. Grace is much more than God’s willingness to “look past” my sin. Grace is God’s deep and mysterious love provoking Him to resist serving the wages that I deserve -- and I deserve to die!
I didn't always understand my faith in this way. From the point of recognition and “the prayer of salvation” in 1992, I assumed that I was saved, and I wasn't too concerned with how I lived from that point forward. But scripture reveals to me that salvation is an ongoing action: that we are being perfected into the image of our Maker. I soon realized, I could not reflect the image of a God that I did not know.
I made a late decision to attend Bethel College in the fall of 1997. I was hardly a beacon of light for the Kingdom, but something (His Spirit) was calling me forth. I previously had every intention of attending a state school for journalism -- in choosing Bethel, I made a cognitive compromise. I told God that I would go, but as an Education major. I won’t describe the misery that accompanied my “compromise,” Needless to say, as I followed His hand, I was directed where He wanted me.
During the first full week of school, I made a special effort to know all of the people (i.e. girls) that could help me gratify my fleshly desires and soothe my insecurities. I became a favorite of the older female RAs, which gave me credence when I became interested in one of the girls on their floor. It was one of these RAs that invited me over to Shupe Hall for an evening prayer meeting.
My roommate went with me, and we entered the lounge expecting a mixed bag of motivations; a co-ed prayer meeting in a female dormitory will bring all sorts of guys out of the woodwork. God showed up instead. During our casual prayer, one spirit-led student felt it necessary to pray around the building and claim His territory. We did a “Jericho march” around Shupe while singing songs of praise. Gradually, more students began to join us -- the initial prayer group of fifteen grew to about fifty.
After deciding to do the same around the freshman guys dorm, we ended up out front -- instead we were led into a time of confession. As a few of us began to confess lifelong struggles with sin, a repentant heart was shared by the entire group, and the Holy Spirit began manifesting His power. [Bear in mind, the Missionary Church is one of those “we recognize the gifts, because scripturally we kind of have to, but if we focus on the likelihood of their abuse, we won‘t have to deal with them“ sort of denominations.] That night, in the presence of God and His people, I was filled with His Spirit and was claimed as His.
My initial struggle was understanding how identify with the world I had associated with for so long. Like Isaiah in chapter 6, I had seen the holiness of my God, and could do nothing else but give Him my life. Why He chose me in that place, at that time, I’m unsure. I must trust that He intimately understood the details of my call. But as He began to speak to me, giving me the ability to discern between that which is good and evil, I resisted this burden.
I looked around and saw my fellow Christians continuing to live their lives the way that I had before. I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t get back to that place: to laugh, to indulge in entertainment, to crack jokes that would make me accepted and the center of attention. It was if my personality had been changed overnight. And yet, because I saw my former life around me, I felt as if I was all alone in the transformation.
Over the next four years, it gradually grew “worse.“ People continued to ask what was wrong. They wondered about my mood swings: how could I go from old Anthony one minute into contemplative, burdened Anthony the next? I attempted to reason it out through counseling. But I could not erase from my mind or spirit that which I had seen and heard from the Lord. It was this holy discontent that led me to search for an explanation -- if being aware of the truth only made me miserable, why would He give me this “gift“?
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