Luke 1: Good News

I’ve been reading through Luke 1 this week.  This is the first time that I took the time to REALLY read it, not just rush through its 80 verses in order to “get to the good stuff” of Luke’s account of the life of Jesus (you know, things like the Christmas story, feeding 5,000 people, stumping the Pharisees, loving on the outcasts of His day, etc).

My next couple posts will be lessons God has taught me through this chapter.  Above all else, He has used it to remind me that He really does do extraordinary work in the lives of ordinary people: a couple trying to get pregnant, a young peasant girl, my friends, people I go to church with, and even myself.

I won't post the entire text here.  You might want to read through it yourself to get some perspective on what I'll be talking about.

I hope you hear about God's amazing character through my imperfect words.

Tenderness I Cannot Bear

In the play Man of La Mancha, the Don Quixote’s love interest sings these words:
“Blows and abuse I can take and give back again.  Tenderness I cannot bear”.  The song she is singing is an attempt to convince Don Quixote that she is not Dulcinea, a princess who is the epitome of beauty, chastity, charity, and grace, but rather Aldonza, a “kitchen slut reeking of sweat”.

“Tenderness I cannot bear” resounds deep within my heart.  Dulcinea/Aldonza is a woman well acquainted with sorrow who has taken her lot in life to be the maid and prostitute of mule-drivers. Over the years she’s steeled herself to both pain and pleasure (after all to her  “one pair of arms is like another”).

I read through some Wounded Heart tonight.  The chapter I started on was on betrayal.  One of the lines that struck me to the core of my heart was:

The [abused] child does not have the intellectual understanding or the contrasting experience of a nourishing home to evaluate the shortcomings of his own parents and siblings.

Until recently this statement remained true of me.  In many ways I was still an abused, childish man who didn’t realize the full extent of the damage done to my soul in my childhood home intentionally and through neglect. 

In recent months I feel like I’ve been stepping more and more into manhood for the first time. But that transition is not the important variable in this equation.  What is important and what has brought about change is the fact that I have witnessed and begun to understand the  “contrasting experience of a nourishing home”.  It has been heartbreaking to say the least.

What could have been first-hand experiences of tenderness have glanced off my heart, which like the heart of Aldonza/Dulcinea is protected against any feeling: good or bad.  Compliments and emotional nourishment offered by members of my church family (especially from Renee Wurzer) have gone unheeded by my heart.  Thankfully, I have been witness to others being the object of tenderness and it is these moments that have softened my heart and caused me to be introspective, starting the process of healing in my life.  One instance in particular stands out to me and still brings tears to my eyes (in fact I was a sobbing mess in Racy’s tonight when I remembered it).

I was meeting with my friend Perry, who also is my pastor, at his house. For several days prior to me visiting his 3 year-old daughter had been extremely sick and was still hadn’t fully recovered by the time I stopped by.  During our time together she came into the office, climbed on Perry’s lap, and in whispers asked for food, medicine, and a bubble bath.  Perry’s tender response undid me and continues to do so to this day, months later.  I had never been such an intimate witness of tenderness like that, much less experienced it for myself.

One of my goals for August (a month of break during my academic year) is to “Fall more in love with God”.  To do that I need to give into the tenderness he’s offering me.  All too much like Aldonza/Dulcinea, the experience of true unadulterated tenderness without strings attached is just awkward for me, almost unbearable.  I’m accustomed to dealing insults, emotional abuse, being shamed for physical attributes and lack of performance, etc and know how to dish those things out on others.  Things like affirmation of my good character, compliments, grace, kindness, and love are all unfamiliar to me and I don’t know how to respond to them.  Part of me “falling more in love with God” over this next month (and the rest of my life) will be learning how to believe in God’s love for me and how to properly respond to it.

It’s going to be unfamiliar, awkward, and unsettling. But I need to believe in the end it’s going to be worth it, that the pursuit of loving Christ will bring me the best life possible. It will not devoid of sorrow, heartbreak, and sacrifice but it all will have a purpose: my sanctification, God’s glory, and the restoration of the broken world I live in.

Rest

What did God do on the seventh day? I mean of course before creating the Packers, beer, and rock n’ roll. Was He tired from the previous six days? Was the universe just a little too crowded after creation, making Him need some “me-time”? What does an eternal Creator-God, who is unrestrained by time, do on His day off? Did He alternate napping with watching Grey’s Anatomy while sipping coffee on a recliner?

To me, YHWH’s day of rest in the creation story is a cosmic lesson about how we as humans, made in His image, need to take time to rest. In the times that the Hebrew Bible was written God commanded that the people of Israel “keep the Sabbath day holy”. Saturdays, the seventh day of the Hebrew week, were set apart specifically for rest.  It must have been one really simple way of imitating God at that time (Hey, I have the same day off as YHWH!).  But, over time we, as humans, put way too many rules on how to “rest” on our Sabbath.  As a Jew during the time of Jesus, observing the rules of the Sabbath had to have been exhausting; you could only walk so many steps, you couldn’t cook, couldn’t carry things over a certain weight, etc.  Rest must have seemed oppressive, like work.

Why does God command us to rest, even to the point of modeling it Himself?  Think about it: if anyone really does have the weight of the world on His shoulders AND the ability to change things that are wrong with the world it is God.  Sometimes, I wish He had used the 7^th day to make the human genome a little more robust or figuring out a way to make the world work without mosquitoes and cockroaches.  He didn’t though.  He was intentional about resting---and it was good too.

I’m at a point in my academic year where I actually get to rest, legitimate days off without obligations to do anything but get out of bed (I really don’t even need to shower or brush my teeth).  Is that what God wanted? I don’t think so; but at the same time I don’t want to feel obligated to do certain things to make my day off restful. What’s the point of rest for me? Recharging my batteries, regaining mental function, having coffee with friends, finding time to enjoy myself, etc.  Is that just as “holy” or worthwhile as spending a day fasting, in prayer, listening to sermons, and reading the scriptures?

I don’t know really. What I do know is that God is constantly calling us to something better, better than day-to-day survival and better than rule-following religiosity. The specifics of what that looks like for me may be very different than most everyone else (who else would spend a day off looking at pictures of gross anatomy for enjoyment?).  God wants us to have one day each week set apart rest, take stock in what matters, and spend it doing something we enjoy.  Why is that so hard for us to do?

Addiction

I sat down at my computer tonight with the intention of writing about addiction and the magnetism of addictive behaviors.  It was going to be my attempt to explain my grandmother's relapse into alcoholism after over 20 years of sobriety or my own history of "relapses" to smoking cigarettes, drunkenness, lust, and self-damage.

Everything I wrote seemed scattered, inaccurate, and, inadequate; like a 4 year old trying to describe the plot of a movie they just saw.

All I know is my addictions are keeping me from living as the man I truly want to be: the man of God's design.  I don't know what recovery looks like and am extremely discouraged by the idea of "Once an addict. Always an addict.".  I know to retreat into my addictions will only leave me unsatisfied and even more frustrated with myself and God. The only other option is to move forward, however impossible that may seem.

I'm battered and bruised from losing too many fights to be better, or at least different, this week. I'm exhausted.  All the "right answers" seem trite and useless.  I'm discouraged to say the least.  I know that as a Christian there should be something to be hopeful about, but I'm just not feeling it tonight. 

Suicide By Tiny Tiny Increments: A Lesson From High Fidelity

High Fidelity, like all of my favorite movies it has a great soundtrack and has little life lessons scattered throughout it.  To be honest I’ve been thinking about writing on this particular scene from the movie for quite some time but haven’t really found the heart to go through it and write my own story around it.

The entire movie is centered on the history of bad romantic relationships and hurtful break-ups, particularly the most recent one, of Rob Gordon (played by John Cusak).  Just under an hour and a half into the movie, after attending the funeral of his ex-girlfriend’s father, Rob is sitting at a bus stop in the rain and says this:

I can see now I never really committed to Laura. I always had one foot out the door and that prevented me from doing a lot of things. Like thinking about my future and…I guess it made more sense to commit to nothing, keep my options open and that’s suicide by tiny, tiny increments.

I have been guilty of suicide by tiny increments on many occasions. I too have committed to nothing and kept my options open only to strangle the opportunities that were right in front of me, waiting for me to seize them.  All too often I turn on the TV instead of reading a book that I know will inspire me.  Countless nights I’ve chosen to have another beer instead of calling a friend to see how they’re doing. I’ve settled for meaningless, unhealthy relationships instead of risking and fighting for romance.  I’ve supplemented fantasy with reality in order to numb the pain of my loneliness.  I haven’t voiced my opinion or shared my emotions, fearing the consequences of being exposed and known. All these things are suicide by tiny increments, safety in familiar, unsatisfying mediocrity.

As a man whose tried to take my life on two separate occasions during my youth this concept is even more harrowing.  When choosing to end life (to whatever degree) seems like a better option than continuing on, something is terribly wrong.

Paul Farmer, in his book Pathologies of Power, uses the formula Observe, Judge, Act when dealing with the issue of inequality in global health care.  The formula has merit here as well. I have observed and know my preferred methods of self-destruction and judged that their existence points to the fact that something has gone terribly wrong and needs to be corrected. That only leaves me to act, to change the state of heart, mind, and body.

HOW?

Stop. Stop choosing to sacrifice the true me in front of the idols of safety and pleasure. Stop expecting that my only outcome is failure. Stop forcing compliments glance off my hardened heart or dismissing them as ignorance while weaving criticism and deceit into my inner identity. Stop sabotaging myself. In short, stop killing myself daily.

Start. Start choosing to do the things that bring me life to the fullest. Start calling friends and actually caring about their struggles enough to pray for them. Start intentionally writing about things that matter, issues close to my heart, exposing the frightened little boy inside me. Start dreaming again, believing that miracles do happen, even to guys like me.  Start believing I’m actually loved and learning how to love others. START LIVING, LOVING, AND BEING KNOWN.

My Heart and The Wind

my heart

My heart is surrounded by layers…
    stinky like an onion or an ogre not fun like a parfait

Layers of make-shift armor set up to protect my heart from pain-givers
    miles of flimsy defenses encircle my broken and anguished heart

“I’ve been hurt too much before” I whisper to myself
    and throw another shopping cart or apple box a little bit farther out

Or is my heart more like a tree?
    year after year adding one more hard layer…23 rings that you can count

The hard shell protects what’s inside
    dry-rot and emptiness where there once was life

These conditions were caused by my defenses
    and seem to call for more and more of them farther and farther out

My defenses are now so far out
    that even those bringing nourishment and love cannot reach the real me

There is one thing I fear more than the pain-givers

THE WIND

The Wind blows…
    it rattles and displaces my defenses

The Wind blows…
it bends and twists my shell until I groan and creak on the verge of bursting

The Wind blows…
    it calls me to freedom and to restore that which was lost long ago

The Wind blows…
    it tells me He’s gentle and kind and won’t hurt me or leave me or forsake me

The Wind blows…
    it asks me to trust Him and to live without defenses or a shell

The Wind blows…
    it whispers “I love you. Come, follow Me” over and over

As much as I would like to, I can’t ignore the Wind
    it blows all the time these days

I have to let the Wind carry away all of my defenses even the ones I grip the tightest
trying to hold on to the last shred of the asylum I’ve built

I have to let the Wind burst my hard shell
    exposing the frightened me that I’ve learned to protect

The Wind has said that to love I must let myself be known and loved
    to have a life worth living I must let go of survival now

I’m afraid but I must listen to the Wind
    and let it work in my life

I know I will fail
    but the Wind will catch me and teach me how to soar

Rise from your ashes, burst to beautiful flame.

I love the myth of the Phoenix.  I have ever since I heard about the bird for the first time as a self-proclaimed pyromaniac adolescent.  As I’ve grown in character and stature, my love for this bird and the legend that surrounds it has matured as well.  To sum my understanding of it up in a sentence, a Phoenix is an emblazoned bird with a beautiful song that is reborn every thousand years or so from it’s own ashes.

There’re some obvious implications: renewal, immortality, resurrection, new life, etc. I think mythologists, writers, philosophers, and sermonizers have beaten all of these allegories to death.  So I really won’t bother with explaining the allegory, I’ll just let you know it’s happening: I’m resurrecting my blog. 

Now, I know the statement above will cause no one to run off, buy fireworks, and light them off in celebration.  But this is a pretty big deal for me, it scares me.  There’re a few reasons for my fear and hesitation starting to blog again.  First, I started this particular blog over 2 years ago and really haven’t done much with it.  I’m afraid the same thing will happen again: a few good posts written months apart only to be abandoned and forgot about.  Secondly, the name sets up a lot of expectation in my own mind.  I started a hungerforchange blog on xanga.com 3 years ago while living for a month on $30 worth of food.  It was an inspired time when I lived with a purpose, noticed things, and wrote about them.  I tried thinking up some new trendy blog name that I could be proud of and I couldn’t.  So, I'm simply resigning myself to add to this one: resurrecting it hoping it will blow on the burning coals of my soul and ignite something.  Lastly, I’m truly afraid to produce.  It’s a strange fear but one nestled in my own self-image of being an appreciator of the finer things of life: music, art, literature, coffee, cigars, etc.  The moment I produce something, anything I’m opening myself up for criticism.  There’s extra fear because what I write is simply an extension of who I am, how I see the world, and what I think of it all; for someone to criticize something I wrote would be to critique what makes me who I am.

I AM forging ahead despite all of that.  I’m doing so because there is a chance for great beauty, the kind that can only emerge of the ashes of an old life, from scar tissue, from memories that put a knot in your guts and bring tears to your eyes.  I’m not sharing the lessons my life is teaching me because they are unique nor because they’re universal.  I’m sharing them to produce, to contribute something to the world that surrounds me.  I’m forcing myself to care enough about something that I’ve written to edit and revise it then put it on display.  I hope the process of writing and revising will be introspective and enlightening.  I hope to find something within the ashes of life that’s been there all along but only needed a little coaxing to ignite and shine like crimson.

Arise oh Phoenix from your ashes, burst into beautiful flame.