5/9/10

From my journal:

I want to be the kind of old man who has eyes that are always smiling; who calls young women "dear" and it's comforting, and not creepy or condescending; who calls young men "son", and there is a sense in which it is true. And the old man that I will be is going to be determined by the young man that I am. I am trying to be a young man that will turn into that kind of old man, and I need God's love.

I need God's love.

And I am afraid that somehow I can't ever be that old man. I don't know why — the fear doesn't explain itself. But it is there.

I want to be that old man, and I want to be the young man who is going to become that old man. I want to work toward it, but I can never remember. Maybe one day out of twenty I remember, and that's not enough. And I'm afraid.

I am growing old. I am growing old. We all are growing old.

Let's have children and teach them to worship God, and then even after we die, we will still, in a sense, be able to worship God on the earth. What else is there to live for?

What else have I wasted myself on?

What else is there but You?

Like a star when it sees the Sun.

Maybe I could be small
Maybe I could be nothing at all, and You could be everything.

It could start slow, like this; as, after all, seeds become sprouts before they're great oaks
Or strong cedars
Or tall pines
And I've a divided mind
And a long way to go.

Yeah, and maybe not for more than a week at first
(And often faltering, and usually confused, and sometimes unsure)
But trying.
Really, trying.

And slow.
And steady.
And crowned with steadfast love and mercy,
And forgiven all the time.

And then, and afterward, always, a revolution in my ribcage.
And a mind being transformed.
And not holding grudges.
And not loving useless things.
And not hating useless people.
And not shrugging my shoulders
Or closing my eyes
Or giving up so easy
Or anything passive or apathetic or cold.

Maybe I'm a meagre acorn, clinging to a branch on an oak that's getting old, and more dead and barren all the time.
Maybe I could clench my fists
(Unless a seed falls into the ground and dies, it abides alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit)
and set my teeth
("Because I live, you will also live")
and drop.

And that could be alright.

Late in the Year

2009 is winding down. It has moved almost entirely from the future, through the present, and into the past, the way that you and I and everyone and everything eventually must.

And lately I feel hopeful. I almost missed out on Christmas this year, so bogged down was I with the stressfulness of the traditions we've built up around it. So preoccupied with all the extra work and patience it required of me that I almost neglected to wonder at the God that became a man. But then I heard a friend sing:

"Why am I shrugging my shoulders while Heaven and nature sing?"

And then I got it. God became a man!

God never does anything the way that anyone else would do it. Ever. A baby that was God was born to an unmarried teenager and laid in a trough for animals. And thirty-three years later, He saved the world by being murdered.

He said that the last would be first, and the first would be last.
He said that people we don't think much of -- the meek, the poor in spirit, the peacemakers, the persecuted -- He said they were blessed. They will inherit the earth; the kingdom of God belongs to them; they will be called the sons of God.
He said evil doesn't just consist in what we do; but in the thoughts and motives that drive what we do.

He never does what anyone else would do or says what anyone else would say. He's wild and scandalous, and entirely unpredictable.

I've been thinking about that for a while now. God's creativity is amazing to me. It makes me excited to follow Jesus, and to be a part of the crazy, convoluted, and unpredictable story that He's still telling.

2009 has been long, and I guess I didn't really enjoy all of it. A lot of that's my fault -- I have a talent for finding the darkness in a picture and then focusing in on it. I can never seem to get my mind away from this idea of the inevitability of death. Which is fine, because everything will die; but it's shortsighted. Death doesn't have the final word. The final scene isn't a graveyard -- it's a kingdom. Focusing on death is shortsighted because I believe in Jesus, and Jesus promises resurrection. Death is just the prerequisite to that.

Death, and death, and death; but then redemption, rebirth, resurrection. God grant that I don't forget again!

So I'm hopeful. 2010 is going to be a good year, I can feel it. I'm moving in with some awesome dudes, and paying a lot less rent. I'm going to have more money. I'm going to accomplish stuff that matters. And I'm going to go on dates with pretty girls; because after all, I'm clever and kind of good-looking. And even if 2010 blows, it'll be alright, because the Almighty crowns me with steadfast love and mercy.

So, there you go. Bring on the new year. I'm not afraid. Er, maybe I am a little, but it'll be okay.

It'll be okay.

There's a stump in my front yard that's sending out leafy, green shoots.

After this pruning, I shall be fruitful.
After this burning, I shall be pure.

Resurrection is preceded by death, as its prerequisite. There is no other way.

Joy is on the other side of sorrow.
Rest is on the other side of labor.
Peace is on the other side of war.
Healing is on the other side of injury.

The only way out is through.
The longest way round is the shortest way home.

Life is on the other side of death.
Hope will light the way.

Let's lay down our petty luxuries,
Close our eyes to the shining foil with which we've gilded our makeshift wealth
(mudpies and cowpats disguised in gold candy wrappers);
Let's get dirty and muddy,
Let's ruin our clothes and reduce them to rags,
Let's make our hands hard and our eyes dim,
Let's dig for real, lasting riches
In the mud and the mire
(Wealth is on the other side of poverty
Plenty is on the other side of want).
And even if we don't find any
(But we will find all we need)
We haven't really lost anything.

What good is a grape hanging ripe on the vine?
Why not be crushed to make wine?

(Mending is on the other side of brokenness.)

Everything will be ruined.
Everything will be alright.

Life is on the other side of death.
Hope will light the way.

On the Dark Pleasures of Sleeping In

This tension between glory and apathy;
between the good fight and a good night's sleep;
between a maybe-wife-and-kids and my much-loved sittin'-around time;

and this question of what all the fighting is worth if it won't end while I live--

It pulls me apart at the seams.

All human action is ultimately self-motivated
(even the most selfless altruist in some sense wants to be altruistic),
and so often, I just run completely

out.

of.

fuel.

(My head is in the sand. I keep a white flag on my person at all times. I don't care. I'm not involved. I don't need it. I give up. Just leave me alone.)

(It doesn't matter to me if I don't win; just so long as I don't lose.)

"Keep your head low and your mouth shut" has always been my motto, but it's not really real life.

But what's so great about real life?

What do you get out of it?

And no use saying "It's not about that"--everybody's out for something. All human action is ultimately self-motivated; there's no other way.

But through the mud and muck and mire
(Like a treasure buried in the silt
Like the sun reflected off the windshield of a car)
Truth and beauty and goodness shine a light I can't ignore
(or not for long, anyway)
And on good days, I want to be out for that.

On good days, glory overcomes apathy.
On good days, the good fight is better than a long nap.
On good days, just sittin' around gets boring
(and anyway a wife would be so soft and smell so nice!)

But even on good days, it's still a fight just to not feel like I could go either way.

Lord Jesus, have mercy on me.

A Psalm

Let my cluttered, muddled mind praise YHWH!
Let my nearly constant confusion praise YHWH!
Let my useless daydreaming praise YHWH!
Let my social anxiety praise YHWH!
Let my inability to make conversation praise YHWH!
Let my crippling sense of futility praise YHWH!
Let my ruined childhood praise YHWH!
Let my neglectful father praise YHWH!
Let my haunting fear of imitating him praise YHWH!
Let my fear of rejection praise YHWH!
Let my fear of women praise YHWH!
Let my burning lust praise YHWH!
Let my idolatrous pantheon of pretty girls praise YHWH!
Let my shitty job praise YHWH!
Let my complete inability to wisely manage my time praise YHWH!
Let my broken family praise YHWH!
Let my misanthropy praise YHWH!
Let my total lack of ambition praise YHWH!
Let my chronic despair praise YHWH!
Let my frequent sense of meaninglessness praise YHWH!

Let all my many and various inadequacies praise YHWH!

Rejoice!
Rejoice!
Rejoice!

The bows of the mighty are broken, but the feeble bind on strength!

The full have hired themselves out for food, but those who were hungry are filled!

There is hope for a tree cut down, that it will sprout again, and its shoots will not cease!

Let everything that has breath praise YHWH!

Praise YHWH!

(Psalms 148, 149, 150; 1 Samuel 2; Job 14: 7-9; 2 Corinthians 12:7-10)

On Patriotism and Hero Worship (or, if you prefer, 'Inflammatory')

I have a very strange habit: Whenever I find something cheesy or overwrought or vapid or brainless, I kind of zone out and start testing the idea behind it in my mind. For example: Terrible, theologically bankrupt worship songs usually get me to thinking really seriously about theology. A more concise way of putting it might be to say that if something aims for my heart and misses, it frequently hits my head.

So a few nights ago, I found myself at the Stone Mountain laser show. It was gloriously Southern: I was surrounded by rednecks in camping chairs and on blankets, and vendors carrying overpriced glowsticks and light-up plastic swords; and a very 'Merican (woo!) spirit hung over the whole affair. The show itself consisted of what you would expect; lots of Georgia-themed songs, a bit about the Civil War that got all the Confederates in the crowd worked up. There was a scene depicting a couple of robots falling in love to the tune of R.E.M.'s "It's the End of the World as We Know It" that was unexpected and kind of cool; but the rest, though amusing, was pretty predictable.

Then, near the end, they played the full version of "Star-Spangled Banner" (which must have been six minutes long), set to scenes of people most Americans would probably call heroes--John F. Kennedy, George Washington, firemen, astronauts, soldiers, the NYPD, etc. And I stood up and put my hand over my heart, like everyone else, because however detached and over-rational I may be, I am an American. But I started thinking about patriotism and hero worship; and I just do not understand it.

Do not mistake me; I do not believe that there is anything wrong with admiring people who do extraordinary things, and even less with loving the place you call home. But I guess, at bottom, I don't really believe in heroes; and I will never in all my days assert that America is the greatest country in the world. In the first place, what kind of criteria do you use to determine that? I have only been to one other country, and I prefer America to that place; but translating that into America being superior would just be stupid. And as for hero worship: why? Do people not know that all of those men are dead and buried, or will be soon? And even if their lives were given for something we call 'noble', for peace or freedom or justice; even if their lives have made our lives better--we all are going to die, as well; and so will our children, and so will theirs. We are like the flower of the field, that blooms today, and tomorrow is gone, and its place does not remember it; or again, like the dew that vanishes before midday; or again, we are like the wind that passes, and comes not again. "All is vanity", said the Preacher; and he spoke the truth.

So with these thoughts flying back and forth over my mental landscape, I thought (lest I should fall again into that old black despair I used to love so much): To what should these energies be devoted? Nations and their heroes are not sufficient objects for the worship a man, even if they do frequently steal it. A man's country can be, and frequently is, positively evil; and as for heroes -- from dust they came, and to dust they have or someday will return.

Jesus, the Christ, is the only hero who has conquered death, and whose accomplishments and victories will benefit us long after we have withered away, and our place as forgotten us. He did not come from the dust, and He has not gone back there. His kingdom is the only nation that does no evil, and is always, in every way, admirable and worthy of a man's allegiance.

Christ's life was not a campaign. He did not rally for a revolution in a temporary government. He did not seize a seat of power and pass just laws that would pass away as soon as a stronger army than His decided they wanted His land. Rather, He came to write a new law on our hearts that will never pass away, even if every army in the world comes against it. His revolution was a revolution in our hearts and minds; and His cause was our salvation, not our temporary peace and prosperity. When He died, He did not "go the way of all the earth" -- He took sin on his sinless self, condemning it by dying; and rising in victory, He cancelled the debt we had incurred by sin, buying for His followers an eternal freedom, and not a temporary one.

As for His nation, it is not a geographical territory with fixed boundaries -- it is a kingdom in the hearts and minds of men that spans the globe. It is an empire of liberation, not conquering countries for resources, but men and women for their freedom. The Crusaders marched under the banner of the cross, but they were advancing the kingdom of the Pope, not of the Christ he claimed to serve. And the kingdom of Christ is unshakable: though all the armies in the world should fight against it, it cannot fall. It is a kingdom built on love and not strength; on freedom and not slavery.

May our eternal God and Father rescue us, lest ever we should worship or pledge our allegiance to anything less.