Saturday, December 24, 2011

Christmas is Fake.

Christmas is Fake.  There are lights—and annoying green wires.  There are pretty Christmas trees—and an agonizing trip to pick one out a Homedepo.  Christmas Eve service?—broken projector, singing to CD, candles burning your hand, and a lot of awkward hugs.
Christmas is something we do.  We play our part.  We survive Christmas.
But on December 24, 2011, there are also things quite real.  The fear of 2012 (not because I think the world is imploding), the life this year has brought, and an uncanny process of tomorrow.  It’s all in future and past, yet so, so, real. 
Beyond the fuzzy, and the feeling, there is oddly love and God.
Love and God.
Aren’t they supposed to be fuzzy?  Aren’t they supposed to make us feel happy and warm and carefree?  They do.  But in the misted of fake and fuzzy of Santamas, the invisible and strange God is something of a comfort.  My fights with God can wait for tomorrow, I’m quite happy to know we can have them.  I’m happy to marvel at the story I find myself written into, into the life I never thought mine to live.
A good writer tells a story, where the only glorifying they make of themselves is how invisible they are.  How through their witty narratives, effortless romances, and twisting plots in the end the reader is in love with the characters.  In turn the love for the writer is different. This love is a knowing.  As we read the pages of a skillfully crafted work the uncanny feeling that we have walked a path cut for us.  That we know the writer by his words and yet he knows us because we have read them.  There is the strange feeling the writer understands us, because we understand him, or rather, he has understood us because he has helped us to understand him.  Much more it is the memory, the love of the revisited pages bringing us back to old places.  We love these memories—stories—and yet it’s ease makes it harder to appreciate the triple edit, the quibble over a single word, the crafting, editing, plight of the writer.  And that is his glory.

Of God and love,
Nothing more kind,
nothing more good.
A kindness,
A grace
--compassion!
To walk a great road
and
to not walk alone. 

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

Graciously

I am the air in space,
no matter what you give I take.
I take and take,
across the abyss.
My soul consumes all every last wish.

I’m tired of my own two hands. 
Turning things to gold,
souls at that!
I am sick of being the one,
who breaks as ask for mercy upon,
a tattered remnant of what once I was.
Untouchable, or try and see. 
I am the shatterer who makes you give,
I am the taker for which you live,
I am the wretch which once was lost,
Now found, I simply wander on and off.
 I am a child with little hope,
I ask today and tomorrow for more. 
I am the greatest,
most insolent
failure,
I am loved and should never hope for a favor.
 I am a hole within the sea,
trying to drink all the grace around me.
            But even that I find,
                                                I’m failing, 
                        Graciously.

Friday, November 4, 2011

Needing to Need "Needs"

We don’t know what we are.  We are as divided as ever before, and yet unisex.  We have been fighting for freedom for so long we beg to be put into boxes, if only to fight out of them.  We are men and women.  And everyone is so damn sure, we are from different planets.

See, it’s because men are men, and they don’t speak much English.  In fact it really bothers them, so in order for you women to expect your man to put up with all that English you speak you have to trade it for something else…something he wants…err um, go ask your mom what that is.  The main thing is to make him think he’s in charge.  Let’s face it you’re basically manipulating his perception, but making him think he’s in charge seems to work.  He gets to tell you what to do, and you get to tell him your feelings, this is respect.

And men, we will keep it short.  Everyone knows women are petty. But it’s worth the bull**** because not only will you get ‘what you want,’ your laundry will get done too.  So try to stay awake for a few conversations and sound sympathetic.  That is love.

FAIL.

(This is the most ungraceful blog ever, I apologize.  Really it should be a paper I’m too lazy to write.)

We call this “meeting each other’s needs,” this is more like the current economic crisis with China and the U.S. 

See China is like America’s woman.  She bought our debt and in return America took her plastic-factory-crap.  For a while it worked, America wouldn’t like something China did, and the trade slowed down, but because China is more dependent on America for the sake of the starving factory kids, she usually listened.  In returned America got the goods.  After a while, China bought so much of America’s bull**** that she decided she’d throw some weight around next time America tried to manhandle her.
--Now pretend you’re a pastor, what would you tell China and America.

It seems today all that’s needed for a happy marriage is good international policy.  Mutually Assured Destruction, the ability to give and take, to measure the value of losses, a healthy supply of goods, and a crap load of B.S.—I mean, cultural sympathy.

If men and women have needs as described by a lot of people, we are merely consumers of each other.  We are living in 2 dimensions that smash awkwardly together, feeding off of one another.  We lack a personal purpose outside of hedonism, making ourselves happy out of the use of another person. Love.

Can we be human, and yet different?

Is it so impossible to think that we can work together, side by side, without a power struggle?  Can two totally different beings become one?

Because they have strengths and weaknesses that the other doesn’t, but the mere fact that they are strong and weak seems to imply a scale universal. 
We are not totally devoid of some unifying light. 
We are different, but the same.  We can be weak because the other is strong, relatively.

Relatively, relationally, relationship

I think instead of “needs,” we need purpose,
We need to need each other’s strengths, and to be useful.
                        We need to need each other.

So when we’re talking more biblically speaking we have love, and respect.  It ripples through the pages repeating itself over and over. 

Love, and Respect.

However I highly doubt Paul has read anything about the “needs” of men and women.  I think generally speaking, in a culture of buying brides, it’s hardly a question running in his mind.  Instead, we have a reminder.  Because first and foremost he’s talking about the church in Eph 5:32.  This is a reminder as to how their marriages could mimic Christ and the Church. 

Because in the mist of surviving,
          in child raising,
                             Roman occupation,
racism,                                     religious uproars,           war,
                             poverty,                                   a new thing called church,
we are reminded,
          to love the one we were given
and to respect them, no matter how dark things are around us.

Because using each other’s strengths, means there will be weaknesses to cover.
            And because there is always one more thing wrong in the world, love can’t wait.

Instead of men only gaining “respect” a better word might be trust, as in, to trust their ability in the relationship which (in a survival setting) tends to be out front for reasons of physical ability, children’s needs, and ability to provide. This is also supported in the Greek word “kephale” or “head” referring to the husband as head of a house hold. "Head" today seems to have the connotation of supreme ruler, but the term was also used militarily as in “the person out front leading a charge.” Personally, I think far more often we forget to trust Christ to care about the church than to for get he's God...unless you're a liberal... The challenge Paul brings the women of the church is to trust the only person running to her defense, to rely on the only person in their lives who can go out in front in a society where they were in danger.

In a world where women were powerless the reminder is blaring, to know the difference between them and him. 

It is to trust and give, when every hit taken in life seems to tell her otherwise.  Likewise, it is a reminder to love, because that wife could be the only constant good in his life.  Because he’s not an island unto himself no matter how many other things seem to fail and betray him in this world.  It is the reminder he is not alone.  Love, because time good enough for love will never come.  There will never be enough peace in the world to satisfy before he’s ready to take that plunge.  Because like it or not those two people need each other to survive.  They need to work together; they need to go through life together.  Much more it can be a real, good, and full life.

He will refuse to under prioritize her, even in the face of chaos.  She will hold fast to him, when everything presses her to close herself off.

While we remain as men and women, merely pacifying each other’s “needs” an yet having no purpose in life, we are doomed to keep score.  Everyone is finding creative ways to make the other feel useful, valuable, and strong in some area of their meaningless existence.  We live pointlessly and can only expect to feel unfulfilled.  While the rest of our comfy lives scream for a reason to exist, we somehow assume this won’t affect our relationships.

I am falling,
swirling to and from obscurities.
Lost in my own empty contentment
longing with my heart's over flow.

I am eternal and changing,
redesigning or am I erasing?
To discovering or remember,
something lasts forever.

I am a kite in the wind.
I am a bird in a storm.

All the colors in my hair
growing ever more aware
of misery, and the depth of my own loss.

As the years pattern my skin
I weave cloth to hing in,
to adorn
to address
the ever unraveling mess
of me.

To glorify
and rediscover,
lost in selfish wonder,
in the arms of the Other,
I am I live.

Days, and nights
it was seen as good.
My life
pixelated.

I am my profile picture on facebook.

Monday, October 31, 2011

Superly Natural and the Supernatural

Today I made a box maze.  This is year three actually.  Life, though seemingly lost in the 21st century abyss, is a rhythm. I do, what seems new and great, as I have every year.  Time marches on, and nothing is played the same twice, and yet, always to the same four seasons sheet music.  Tomorrow is Halloween which means today, I made a maze.

It’s all so cut and dry (pardon the pun).  Boxes arrive from a member of the congregation who owns a motorcycle dealership. Mike, Tony&Di + a million little kids, and a few others come to the church.  Chairs are stacked, boxes brought in, and we begin.  My fingers grow sore from pulling zip-ties, stabbing with a box cutter, and ordering around the little kids running through the maze holding duck-tape and more zip-ties.  FINALLY the walls are up and half the group gives up leaving me and a few strong others to finish the roof.  In the end I’m the last standing…literally in the middle of the maze.  I begin the crawl through.  This year was impressive, I made it out without hitting a dead end but impressive all the same.  Everything looks different from inside, slightly claustrophobic, but to be honest my rug burned knees keep the hysteria to a minimum. 

I can’t decide what’s better, to be the maze maker, or to be the kids the maze was made for.  It seems it’s something everyone revels in too.  We love the imperfect, and yet to value is to lift up.  When we look at a hero from some fantastic story he is either a saint, or she is the lowliest of humans, a simple non-individual or a demigod.  But to look at either we still raise them up, “look upon this one for—” their normality or superiority.

Ever thought we probably do the same to God?

            Today Gold dust was swirling on the ceilings of bethel. 

Today I worked all morning, took a nap, caught up on some computer stuff, and made a maze.


This is where I’m supposed to be emergent and tell you about true spirituality
 and how I did the same by my actions
and how God loves me because I’m so
compelled to justify my normal moral behavior
and lump it into time with God *in order to* kill two birds
with one stone the same way my iphone does.

I don’t have an iphone and, sorry Mr. Smith…

So I stood a moment in the family room, watching Redding California’s Christian-Costco, Crazytown, swirling in gold dust.  I saw the worship of hundreds singing in acapella and I knew.  If God were anywhere he’d be there.  I became ACUTELY aware that I simply was not there, that I was here, 2,000 miles away.  It’s easy to forget that on a little screen but for some reason that moment was clear, Bethel’s service was going on right then and there, and I was not there at all.

This is the point at which a charismatic is supposed
to tell you that they turned on their
Jason Upton and suddenly beamed into the service,
or said Shaba and then God appeared—or
an angel and it was better than any old service. 

But instead I kept watching Mad Men, because while I knew God was there, I knew He was also here.  I was here with Him. I’m not sure which one is better.

I used to feel left out with stuff like that.  How my ridiculous record for never being in the right place to see crazy signs of God haunt me.  They still do.  (I’m still pissed about it, by the way God…) But the difference simply came when God’s presents became separate from the amazing.  God was not in the fire/wind/earthquake, but he certainly caused it.  I can’t decide what’s more wonderful.  That God was swirling crazy weird gold dust at church OR he was sitting with me at the foot of my bed watching TV.  I can’t decide whether to revel in this human Christ or the Glorious God.  It is both the incredibly normal life that hosts the presents of God, and the God who is touching down in to normal life.  But I guess He’s in both.

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Something happened to Christianity.



It’s funny how this came about.  Driving around with my mom.  The term ‘Emergent’ happens.  I mean it happens because it seems to be a creature all its own, with thoughts and feelings and behavior all its own.  It’s an ambiguous term for preachers who wear cool clothes and write blogs, and, best of all, make a stir on these blogs.  They film their bible study devotionals with cool music and camera effects.  Don’t get me started on the cool thick rimmed glasses either!  BUT most of all emergent pastors write ‘scary’ books.

Something happen to Christianity when we became scared of a book, much less mad about it.  Why? Because half the time pastors are dragging their congregation by the ear to make them read something and suddenly they’re reading—the WRONG things!  After decades of watching the value of the written word drop, a book is written; and it scares us.

It’s the “watered down” gospel
It’s “catering to nonbelievers
SELLING OUT!

How dare those tax collectors like Jesus?
I mean, they spend their whole lives following selfish pursuits
there’s no way they would like Jesus!
We don’t believe in any benefits to Christianity!

And then, what about the believers that read these books?  What happens when all that is read are a bunch of questions with a few “view points” thrown in?  What’s a 'view point' anyway?  What if the 'view point' that’s believed is wrong?

--Something wrong is here.  Whether it happened or it simply flares up when a Luther is about, something is really wrong.

We’ve become Believers, we stopped being Followers.

This is not the part in the blog,
Where I tell you to get off your butt and save people
This is not the point where I hand you a
Shane Claborn book and a
“be poor” mantra
We are so scared
of believing the wrong things.
We are no longer following this
Rediculously kind God
who popped up on earth and said


Follow me.




We just have to believe he said that.



But what if we’re wrong?

Augustine said, “Pray as though everything depended on God.
Work as thought everything depended on you.”


But we don’t think that way anymore. 

We are so scared.
So very scared.
And we should be.

Because we’re Believers, and what we believe depends on what we choose
and what we choose, chooses our salvation.

We have become Believers we sure as hell, yes, sure as Hell, better get it right.

But I don’t think Jesus wanted Believers.
He said, follow me.

You can follow someone and be wrong. 
You can also not follow someone and be right.
In fact, you can not follow someone and be wrong too!
               
Peter,
            Beelzebub
                                    Pharisees

They were all “Believers.”

But Peter was a really, really wrong follower. 
He didn’t even know what he believed sometimes,
which, as you know, is the 8th deadly sin of ‘emergentism.’

Followers are friends.

Believers are slaves. 
They are happy to know the facts about God and stick to them.

But I want to know His thoughts
            because,
                        I want to know truth.

So I’m going to follow.  Because Jesus, “You have the words of eternal life’….” John 6:68

Monday, October 10, 2011

Are we really?


Are we merely mechanics,
Learning
Theorizing
Agonizing
Over what?

Absurdity

Are we groaning
Aching
Hoping
And alas dashed to nothing

Forgoing facts
Yet sure in our observation
Renouncing faith
Yet fully embracing our despair

We are so so sure there is nothing.

Are we mere scientists to see our thesis and conclusion,
To create our net-like theories and statistics
We have made our bed
But nobody is in a hurry to lie in it.
No instead is a groan of despair
For we are now reduced to being observers
We are passive and sure
While we once hailed the death of certainty
We have made our bed
And we are lying in it in death.

We have hailed the end of systems
We have hurled reason into chaos
Given voice to mad men
And are sure of our futile cycle.

Once we were called to dream.

To see as though from above, to see the world
in all its complexities below, a bustling city of queer patterns
and predicable anomalies.

Or overwhelmed with the passion of the experience. 
Standing in the center of it all and seeing into the deeper recesses.  Gloriously.

In awe or blissful experience we once stood.
But in front of the pattern now we stand,
as children after the fair—
or watching puppet show
 from the wrong side of the stage. 
Our worse fears have come true. 
The paint is not as bright,
the lights only shine on the outside,
and the set is all too flat and grim.

 Our pinnacle of philosophy is merely to “understand” the system.  The ridiculous revel in knowing what’s wrong; because, so much is wrong.

But what mechanic only knows the problem?
A philosopher is now nothing but a blinking, whining, repetitive, oil light.

We are crying out like a child who fully believes,
he fully knows,
that everything is wrong.

Philosophy died not when she crucified reason, or proclaimed even God was dead,
She was no more when she decided, that nothing could ever be said.