Last year, my spouse and I visited the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. Pictures do not adequately show the grandeur, size, scope and beauty of the canyon. Another bonus was the night sky: I saw stars I never see at home due to light pollution. All this beauty but still a potentially dangerous place when a choice goes wrong.
During our visit, there was a 30 mile per hour wind blowing. This added a sense of adventure to walking the trails near the lodge but didn't seem to deter people from climbing on rocks, standing on top of rock formations or getting close to the edge. It seemed as if these individuals did not comprehend their choice might have an effect on other people. One slip of a foot or one big gust of wind could have sent these adventuresome souls over the rim. Then rescue people would have to risk their life to retrieve an injured person or worse a body and the person's family would have to deal with either the resulting medical issues or getting the body home for burial.
This is the same with life: we make choices without ever thinking of how a choice will, might, or could affect people around us. The affair which negatively impacts the children due to gossip at school or the damage to a spouse's self esteem. The binge drinking that brings sorrow due to the drinker's death or death of others due to driving while intoxicated. The examples are endless but the common denominator is the actions are self initiated without any thought of the effect on others.
Sometimes, we realize the choice is incorrect but spend a large amount of time and effort justifying our choice: you just don't understand what I'm dealing with, you can understand because you have never experienced what I'm going through. You may be correct: I don't know what you are dealing with or going through but I can clearly see your choice has potential, detrimental affect on others.
I have an acquaintance who is currently experiencing some upheaval in their life. They have chosen to dull the pain through natural pharmacology. I so bad want to "DiNozzo" them. For those, who don't watch NCIS, a "DiNozzo" is a whack to the back of the head. This person is of reasonable intelligence and is supposedly a Christian but attempts to justify their behavior.
This person doesn't seem to want to acknowledge that natural pharmacology can negatively impact their health, brain, and/or their family. They just want to escape the pain they are experiencing. My question is: do you realize less mature Christians and especially non-Christians are watching you? What does your cavalier attitude say: it's okay to dull the pain when life gets too rough and turn your back on your Christian values?
What would have been the result if Christ had dulled His pain? Would He have been able to be a witness of God's holiness to the disciples? Would He have been able to effectively minister to people? Or would He just have been "that dude with long hair" spouting off platitudes?
I strongly empathize with this person. I too have wanted to "escape" from life's pain but choose instead to "escape" through prayer and Christian fellowship. These "drugs" provide benefits unattainable with natural pharmacology. Fellowship provides a communal experience of support, love, understanding, guidance, and sympathy. Natural pharmacology is self centered and isolates one from caring, supporting people by creating an opaque barrier preventing an individual from reaching out to others for help. Also, the pharmacology induced euphoria dulls the senses to the downward spiral occurring.
In a way, this person's choice is like the windy Grand Canyon: one step too close to the edge or one big windy gust will trigger consequences from which it will be very difficult to recover. In my acquaintance's case, the consequence will be serious damage to their Christian witness and testimony plus their Christian effectiveness will be diminished.
Showing posts with label behavior. Show all posts
Showing posts with label behavior. Show all posts
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
The Contradictions of Creation
In my last post I discussed how we artist “waste” time. In that post, I offered metaphors and symbols for a process that is more emotional than analytical, but there is room for analyzing the process and a place for explaining its mechanics.
On the whole, I do not believe that most of us are aware of how the creative process plays out. Some of us have been privileged enough to know those inspired moments, and they are so pristine and complete unto themselves that it almost feels violent to dissect such a sacred event. And yet, I think that it is because we do not understand the process that we are reluctant to submit to its needs. Maybe if we were better acquainted with the contradictions of creation we would be less inclined to discard the tools we need to achieve our desire.
I think that many of have this notion that great artists and writers simply sit down one day and begin to create. They may have had some training but once inspired they simply do so fully and completely with no flaws or defect. I will grant you that I have had those moments when it seems like my fingers race along the keyboard with no conscious thought or design, seeming to chase an idea of their own accord. There have been times when the paint seemed to dance upon the canvas to the proper place and adopt the proper shade with no assistance from me. Always these are my favorite pieces of work, pieces that I feel no arrogance or vulnerability in showing, because they seem to have to very little to do with me.
I wish that such times were always the case, but in truth they are rare. And yet, even in those times of almost spontaneous generation, I know the truth of the moment. The work before me, taking shape as if it had a life of its own, seeming to assert that my hands are but the hands of a barely needed midwife, is not something that was born on this day.
Throughout my life I have been an observer, picking apart every idea put before me. I can never remember a time when I could simply watch a movie or read a book. Constantly, I am grappling with the work demanding that it yield the idea that it cloaks, searching for its most elemental meaning. I blame this on my father who taught me that anyone who took the time to write a book, play, or movie, anyone who bothered to paint a picture or sculpt a form, had a fundamental belief that they believed so profoundly they were compelled to share it with the world.
I took him at his word, and I began to see the truth in what he had told me. To this day, I have yet to see any creative work that did not embody some ideology or dogma that had shaped the individual who created it. Some are easier to spot than others, but they are there.
Like grapes, I gather all of these bits of inspired thought and emotion. I pool them together in my mind, allowing them to sink deep within me, until I can distil the truth from what I have seen or heard. It may set untouched for years fermenting as a good wine, waiting until the proper day to be tasted. Some ideas may be taken out, reevaluated and judged as I mature only to be recasked and shelved yet again. At times I have been guilty of revealing an idea too soon when the flavor, while promising, has yet to gain the depth necessary for true greatness.
But then there are those ideas whose time has come, the image in my head is complete or the words have formed deep within my psyche and now it must be shared with my friends. If I have been sensitive to the nuances of its maturation I will produce a seductively simple yet bold creation whose complexities must be experienced to be known.
We work when we collect the bounty of the creation around us. We toil as crush the ideas beneath the weight of our scrutiny. We labor as allow them to foment within us, giving them room and space to find a new life under our care. With diligent patience we tend to the knowledge we have taken and wait for the pristine moment of clarity to bring it forth. These are the times when inspiration seems effortless. These are the moments when our art is at its finest, finding its form beneath our fingers, only after days, weeks, or even years of tireless exertion to insure that it is revealed in all the grandeur we can bestow upon it.
As artist we live lives of contradiction that perhaps on a good day can be seen as balance. We learn so that we may destroy and prefect, forget and rediscover. No step may be skipped or forgotten. Each one must be made with boldness and caution, or not taken at all. We create alone in the dark but creation without light or unshared is incomplete and not a creation at all. Perhaps the greatest contradiction is the illusion of spontaneity and the dedicated discipline that cannot supplant the instinctive response to inspiration.
On the whole, I do not believe that most of us are aware of how the creative process plays out. Some of us have been privileged enough to know those inspired moments, and they are so pristine and complete unto themselves that it almost feels violent to dissect such a sacred event. And yet, I think that it is because we do not understand the process that we are reluctant to submit to its needs. Maybe if we were better acquainted with the contradictions of creation we would be less inclined to discard the tools we need to achieve our desire.
I think that many of have this notion that great artists and writers simply sit down one day and begin to create. They may have had some training but once inspired they simply do so fully and completely with no flaws or defect. I will grant you that I have had those moments when it seems like my fingers race along the keyboard with no conscious thought or design, seeming to chase an idea of their own accord. There have been times when the paint seemed to dance upon the canvas to the proper place and adopt the proper shade with no assistance from me. Always these are my favorite pieces of work, pieces that I feel no arrogance or vulnerability in showing, because they seem to have to very little to do with me.
I wish that such times were always the case, but in truth they are rare. And yet, even in those times of almost spontaneous generation, I know the truth of the moment. The work before me, taking shape as if it had a life of its own, seeming to assert that my hands are but the hands of a barely needed midwife, is not something that was born on this day.
Throughout my life I have been an observer, picking apart every idea put before me. I can never remember a time when I could simply watch a movie or read a book. Constantly, I am grappling with the work demanding that it yield the idea that it cloaks, searching for its most elemental meaning. I blame this on my father who taught me that anyone who took the time to write a book, play, or movie, anyone who bothered to paint a picture or sculpt a form, had a fundamental belief that they believed so profoundly they were compelled to share it with the world.
I took him at his word, and I began to see the truth in what he had told me. To this day, I have yet to see any creative work that did not embody some ideology or dogma that had shaped the individual who created it. Some are easier to spot than others, but they are there.
Like grapes, I gather all of these bits of inspired thought and emotion. I pool them together in my mind, allowing them to sink deep within me, until I can distil the truth from what I have seen or heard. It may set untouched for years fermenting as a good wine, waiting until the proper day to be tasted. Some ideas may be taken out, reevaluated and judged as I mature only to be recasked and shelved yet again. At times I have been guilty of revealing an idea too soon when the flavor, while promising, has yet to gain the depth necessary for true greatness.
But then there are those ideas whose time has come, the image in my head is complete or the words have formed deep within my psyche and now it must be shared with my friends. If I have been sensitive to the nuances of its maturation I will produce a seductively simple yet bold creation whose complexities must be experienced to be known.
We work when we collect the bounty of the creation around us. We toil as crush the ideas beneath the weight of our scrutiny. We labor as allow them to foment within us, giving them room and space to find a new life under our care. With diligent patience we tend to the knowledge we have taken and wait for the pristine moment of clarity to bring it forth. These are the times when inspiration seems effortless. These are the moments when our art is at its finest, finding its form beneath our fingers, only after days, weeks, or even years of tireless exertion to insure that it is revealed in all the grandeur we can bestow upon it.
As artist we live lives of contradiction that perhaps on a good day can be seen as balance. We learn so that we may destroy and prefect, forget and rediscover. No step may be skipped or forgotten. Each one must be made with boldness and caution, or not taken at all. We create alone in the dark but creation without light or unshared is incomplete and not a creation at all. Perhaps the greatest contradiction is the illusion of spontaneity and the dedicated discipline that cannot supplant the instinctive response to inspiration.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
I Have a Right to What? Ranting again
Is it just me or has anyone else noticed the number of advertisements that declare that “It is your right to. . .fill in the blank with the appropriate product here.” ? I ask because I am having this visceral reaction to them, they just make me want to throw something through the television. For those of you who have never experienced an “Emily Rant” you might want to skip this post altogether, it’s not going to be pretty, but at the very least, brace yourself.
WHAT IN THE WORLD EVER MADE US THINK THAT WE HAVE A RIGHT TO ANYTHING?
I do not have a right to affordable phone service, white teeth, affordable healthcare, or luxurious pet grooming. I don’t. I just simply do not have those rights, because they are not rights. They are, and I hate to be the one to break it to you, privileges. Privileges that are earned or bestowed, but not rights.
Are these good things that can be made available in a prosperous society? Absolutely. Are these things I desire to have or would hope that each and every individual should experience? Unquestionably. Are these things that I am willing to work for and pray for both for myself and others? Yes, yes, yes, but I cannot find anywhere in any shape where these things are my right, or anyone else’s.
A right is something to which we are entitled. And way too many of us believe that we entitled to way too many things, including driving too fast, the best of everything, and sublime happiness. Like God himself spoke and said that simply because we are we shall have. Funny, I don’t find that in my Bible.
What I do find are some pretty amazing promises, gifts of grace and love offered by a Father who desires to give good gifts to his children, even the undeserving ones. And if I read my Bible correctly, we are all undeserving. There is nothing I can do to merit his consideration of me, and nothing I can do to earn his the beauty he has poured out among us. And I am privileged to experience the expressions of love he offers.
We have got to get past this idea that we have a right to anything. Any of us drawing a breath could have just as easily been born in Rwanda where clean drinking water is a precious commodity. We could be living a life that is punctuated by gunfire, and marked in blood. We could have died as children in place where infants succumb to dehydration and diseases that have long been eradicated within our borders. We did nothing to merit the safety and riches, yes, I did say riches of our lives. We were very blessed to be born in place were such things as spray on tans and cable TV are considered ordinary expenses – necessities even to some.
Why do I say we have to get past this idea? Simple, it will destroy you. The moment you cross the line from believing that something is a gift to it being something you deserve, you have prepared a fertile place for resentment and bitterness to flourish. You will get so caught up in lamenting all the things that you can’t have or possess that you will never look to the needs that lie outside of your hurting pride. And eventually, this attitude will contaminate everything you touch including your relationship with God.
And lest anyone think I am going on about things I don’t understand, allow me to clarify. I can say this with impunity for I have lived there, and I know the crippling effects this mindset can have on us. How we will come to blame God for failing us when he has surrounded us with blessing after blessing.
We are special because we have been loved. I am amazing because the King has sent out an invitation to one such I and seated me at his table. I am brilliant and beautiful because he has chosen to array me in finery when I came to him in rags. I love because he taught me how. I can be loved because he who inspires love lives within me. I care for myself because I have become his home, and he deserves the best I can offer. I can enjoy the bounty of this life because it flows from his hands.
I accept his gifts not as rights that he must provide for me, but as reminders of his extravagance to one who deserves nothing from him. I am humbled that one so great would notice me, and lifted up because he raises me to my feet so that I may speak to him as a friend and daughter. It is not a right but a privilege lavish and heart stopping in grandeur. Reminding me at once of who I was apart from him, and who I am in him.
WHAT IN THE WORLD EVER MADE US THINK THAT WE HAVE A RIGHT TO ANYTHING?
I do not have a right to affordable phone service, white teeth, affordable healthcare, or luxurious pet grooming. I don’t. I just simply do not have those rights, because they are not rights. They are, and I hate to be the one to break it to you, privileges. Privileges that are earned or bestowed, but not rights.
Are these good things that can be made available in a prosperous society? Absolutely. Are these things I desire to have or would hope that each and every individual should experience? Unquestionably. Are these things that I am willing to work for and pray for both for myself and others? Yes, yes, yes, but I cannot find anywhere in any shape where these things are my right, or anyone else’s.
A right is something to which we are entitled. And way too many of us believe that we entitled to way too many things, including driving too fast, the best of everything, and sublime happiness. Like God himself spoke and said that simply because we are we shall have. Funny, I don’t find that in my Bible.
What I do find are some pretty amazing promises, gifts of grace and love offered by a Father who desires to give good gifts to his children, even the undeserving ones. And if I read my Bible correctly, we are all undeserving. There is nothing I can do to merit his consideration of me, and nothing I can do to earn his the beauty he has poured out among us. And I am privileged to experience the expressions of love he offers.
We have got to get past this idea that we have a right to anything. Any of us drawing a breath could have just as easily been born in Rwanda where clean drinking water is a precious commodity. We could be living a life that is punctuated by gunfire, and marked in blood. We could have died as children in place where infants succumb to dehydration and diseases that have long been eradicated within our borders. We did nothing to merit the safety and riches, yes, I did say riches of our lives. We were very blessed to be born in place were such things as spray on tans and cable TV are considered ordinary expenses – necessities even to some.
Why do I say we have to get past this idea? Simple, it will destroy you. The moment you cross the line from believing that something is a gift to it being something you deserve, you have prepared a fertile place for resentment and bitterness to flourish. You will get so caught up in lamenting all the things that you can’t have or possess that you will never look to the needs that lie outside of your hurting pride. And eventually, this attitude will contaminate everything you touch including your relationship with God.
And lest anyone think I am going on about things I don’t understand, allow me to clarify. I can say this with impunity for I have lived there, and I know the crippling effects this mindset can have on us. How we will come to blame God for failing us when he has surrounded us with blessing after blessing.
We are special because we have been loved. I am amazing because the King has sent out an invitation to one such I and seated me at his table. I am brilliant and beautiful because he has chosen to array me in finery when I came to him in rags. I love because he taught me how. I can be loved because he who inspires love lives within me. I care for myself because I have become his home, and he deserves the best I can offer. I can enjoy the bounty of this life because it flows from his hands.
I accept his gifts not as rights that he must provide for me, but as reminders of his extravagance to one who deserves nothing from him. I am humbled that one so great would notice me, and lifted up because he raises me to my feet so that I may speak to him as a friend and daughter. It is not a right but a privilege lavish and heart stopping in grandeur. Reminding me at once of who I was apart from him, and who I am in him.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Yet Another Confession
Okay, so I confess. I am a dripper. I am that person who cannot fill my coffee cup without dripping all over the floor, cabinet, or whatever else may be in the vicinity. As a matter of fact, it is such a common place thing that I almost feel like the ritual is incomplete without a splash or two to warm my toes. Strange I know.
There is something almost barbaric about it. A certain sense of defiance in this small little act, a declaration that, “Yes, I have coffee, the pot shall never run dry, and I care nothing for a few wasted drops that may stain the floor.” I didn’t mean to be a dripper. For years I fought against it, experimenting with ways of pouring that would prevent the waste of this almost sacred liquid. The really odd thing is I finally discovered a way to avoid this potentially embarrassing habit. Okay, so it was really Nathan who revealed to me that if I raised the lid a bit it would not drip.
And so now that I know this, I have a choice to make with each and every cup, and in the course of my day this is many. To lift or not to lift, that is the question, but I find myself reluctant to lift. Sure I have to go back and wipe down the counters and mop up the floor, but I like to drip. This morning, as I felt the comforting warmth on my toes, I considered why this is an issue.
A few of you, I am sure, are citing a tendency towards rebellion, and I can’t completely disagree. But against who or what am I rebelling? That is the crux of the matter. My tidy husband? God? Society in general? Where is it written that dripping coffee is a bad thing? As I began to really ponder the matter, I realized something.
So much of my life is marked by scrimping and saving. Trying to get me to release a dollar for more than an absolute necessity is difficult, as a matter of fact, spending more than twenty dollars for anything other than groceries makes me ill. When it comes to money, I have a financial goal, not the least of which is to pay off my student loans while still feeding my children. It’s the one issue that can make me worry, and not without cause. I have been in those places where meals where nothing but Ramen noodles and I was rolling coins for gas money. If you were to go over my finances for the last ten years you would wonder how I managed to exist at all. It is a modern retelling of the loaves and fish, baffling and nonsensical without the interference of the Father.
Please don’t think I am sharing this to evoke any sort of pity. I have survived, flourished even at times, but always with the knowledge that I was completely dependent on God’s provision. It is one of those facts that I have accepted with a certain sort of resignation, but one that can overwhelm me if I dwell on it for too long.
However, in all of those times, not once did I go without coffee. And if you know me at all you will know that I include coffee as one of God’s greatest gifts to humanity. It’s always been like a seal or sign that he hasn’t forgotten me, no matter how bad other circumstances may be. As long as there is coffee I know that he is still watching over me. I guess it is my own personal form of manna, it appears each day in the measure sufficient for that time, and I know that while there may not be too much of a selection on today’s menu the essentials are there.
So I drip. I let that precious fluid fall in exuberant excess on my counter, floor, and feet. It is my tangible way of saying I have faith that he will not fail me. There will always be a steaming cup to hold to as I sit in my quiet place and commune with him. It is my declaration that I believe there will be a fresh pot tomorrow, or in a few hours. He loves me and provides even this seemingly frivolous token of his affection for me.
And I think this is truth we all need to contemplate from time to time. God is affectionate towards us, indulging our special tastes and desires. He fills our lives with small tokens of his care, so small they are easily overlooked and can go unappreciated. And yet there they are. Steaming away within our grasp and filling our world with wonderful aromas and tastes. In world full of monstrous trials and grand truths that is easy to discount or devalue this small pleasure, and yet what is more intimate than his provision for our simple delights? What speaks more clearly of a lover and friend?
It is humbling and glorifying in the same breath taking moment. The God of Creation loves me this much, this greatly and deeply so that my cup runneth over, and I am glad.
There is something almost barbaric about it. A certain sense of defiance in this small little act, a declaration that, “Yes, I have coffee, the pot shall never run dry, and I care nothing for a few wasted drops that may stain the floor.” I didn’t mean to be a dripper. For years I fought against it, experimenting with ways of pouring that would prevent the waste of this almost sacred liquid. The really odd thing is I finally discovered a way to avoid this potentially embarrassing habit. Okay, so it was really Nathan who revealed to me that if I raised the lid a bit it would not drip.
And so now that I know this, I have a choice to make with each and every cup, and in the course of my day this is many. To lift or not to lift, that is the question, but I find myself reluctant to lift. Sure I have to go back and wipe down the counters and mop up the floor, but I like to drip. This morning, as I felt the comforting warmth on my toes, I considered why this is an issue.
A few of you, I am sure, are citing a tendency towards rebellion, and I can’t completely disagree. But against who or what am I rebelling? That is the crux of the matter. My tidy husband? God? Society in general? Where is it written that dripping coffee is a bad thing? As I began to really ponder the matter, I realized something.
So much of my life is marked by scrimping and saving. Trying to get me to release a dollar for more than an absolute necessity is difficult, as a matter of fact, spending more than twenty dollars for anything other than groceries makes me ill. When it comes to money, I have a financial goal, not the least of which is to pay off my student loans while still feeding my children. It’s the one issue that can make me worry, and not without cause. I have been in those places where meals where nothing but Ramen noodles and I was rolling coins for gas money. If you were to go over my finances for the last ten years you would wonder how I managed to exist at all. It is a modern retelling of the loaves and fish, baffling and nonsensical without the interference of the Father.
Please don’t think I am sharing this to evoke any sort of pity. I have survived, flourished even at times, but always with the knowledge that I was completely dependent on God’s provision. It is one of those facts that I have accepted with a certain sort of resignation, but one that can overwhelm me if I dwell on it for too long.
However, in all of those times, not once did I go without coffee. And if you know me at all you will know that I include coffee as one of God’s greatest gifts to humanity. It’s always been like a seal or sign that he hasn’t forgotten me, no matter how bad other circumstances may be. As long as there is coffee I know that he is still watching over me. I guess it is my own personal form of manna, it appears each day in the measure sufficient for that time, and I know that while there may not be too much of a selection on today’s menu the essentials are there.
So I drip. I let that precious fluid fall in exuberant excess on my counter, floor, and feet. It is my tangible way of saying I have faith that he will not fail me. There will always be a steaming cup to hold to as I sit in my quiet place and commune with him. It is my declaration that I believe there will be a fresh pot tomorrow, or in a few hours. He loves me and provides even this seemingly frivolous token of his affection for me.
And I think this is truth we all need to contemplate from time to time. God is affectionate towards us, indulging our special tastes and desires. He fills our lives with small tokens of his care, so small they are easily overlooked and can go unappreciated. And yet there they are. Steaming away within our grasp and filling our world with wonderful aromas and tastes. In world full of monstrous trials and grand truths that is easy to discount or devalue this small pleasure, and yet what is more intimate than his provision for our simple delights? What speaks more clearly of a lover and friend?
It is humbling and glorifying in the same breath taking moment. The God of Creation loves me this much, this greatly and deeply so that my cup runneth over, and I am glad.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
The Lie About Artists Exposed
There is a terrible rumor flying around out there about us artists, and I think it is time that we confront it head on. I say this because too many of artists have believed it and have been using it in masochistic rituals against the very core of our beings. Over enough time believing this lie will, at the very least, leave us creatively crippled and at the worst will destroy our spirits, the part of us that makes us amazing and wonderful creations of a creative God.
The lie is simple. Artists are lazy. Now, I have to admit that there are few posers out there who have adopted the title as artist to justify their tendency to do as little as possible and live on other people’s couches and eat from their refrigerator. However, simply adopting the title does not mean one deserves the title. True artists are anything but lazy. The problem is much of our progress is difficult to measure in standard terms.
We are seen sitting staring at dust motes in the sun, following the patterns in the carpet, or getting lost in a movie. To the outside observer all of these things can be considered lazy, pointless even. What you can’t see, is the sifting process going on in our brains. If you don’t believe me ask an artist to tell you what they see in the film you watch together. Most people will tell you about the plot and the scenery or that really great actions sequence, we will tell you about the symbols and color pops, the way shots were framed, the use of music to set the tone, or the theological implications if such a thing were true.
A true artist never gets a moment alone, our heads and hearts are filled with images and ideas that like hungry children are begging for our attention. I cannot remember a time when I did not have the next painting forming and shaping itself in my mind, a character in a book not yet written pleading to have their nose described and defined by my words, or some great void of inspiration begging to filled. They are always there, when I am driving, brushing my teeth, and trying to sleep.
And like children, I tell them they can wait. I tell them I will see to their needs in a little while, and like children, they know when they are being placated so I can have moment’s peace. So many of us develop methods of coping. For me it is pacing, I pace with determination and purpose. So much so that if you were to study the padding beneath the living room carpet you would find distinct levels of compression indicating my paths.
Adding to the chaos is the number of voices, if you are or love a creative person you know that we have a million and one great ideas. We have to figure out which ones should be ignored and which ones should be embraced and nurtured. I have rejected a reoccurring idea to dye myself purple, writing random bits of poetry on the walls of my home, and welding a sea horse like apparatus to the hood of my car. I would like to say I rejected these ideas because I realized their impracticality, but the truth is I have yet to find the right shade of purple, my landlord wouldn’t appreciate the graffiti, and I don’t know how to weld.
So I have to figure out what I can do with the tools at hand, and getting to that idea requires tremendous concentration and focus – hence the pacing. Sometimes, I have to take more drastic measures to scatter the ideas enough to pick a single one from the foray. This means Air Supply has to be blasted from the stereo and I must sing loudly and off key until the proper level of tranquility has been reached. And the really sad thing is, I don’t even like Air Supply.
Then and only then, can I begin to work. Now, I call this work, others would probably call it a series of false starts. As with this blog post which was started and deleted four times to date. To the average on looker it could appear as a wasted effort and an abuse of time, but I know that all of this starting, stopping, creating and destroying is a part of the process. It’s the winnowing of the words and images that I am trying to capture. It is working out the impurities and refining the molten ideas of my heart. There are no short cuts. It is a simple surrender to something that others may not understand or value.
I think this is why so many artists must work in seclusion. We need the freedom to file our nails, and stare at our faces in the mirror before putting pen in hand, brush to canvas, or finger tip to key. The weight of scrutiny is just too much to shoulder when you are already laden with so many sensations both tangible and esoteric. We don’t need to worry about appearing strange or odd to a perplexed audience. I also think this is why there are so few famous women artists, but that is a post for another time.
Creation is labor intensive. It always has been. Even God declared the need for a rest after his endeavors. Not that he needed one, but he knew that we would need a space in time to silence all the demands of the creative process. He understood that taking a moment to consider dust motes would allow us to rest in the greatness of a God who created even these insignificant bits of wonder.
The lie is simple. Artists are lazy. Now, I have to admit that there are few posers out there who have adopted the title as artist to justify their tendency to do as little as possible and live on other people’s couches and eat from their refrigerator. However, simply adopting the title does not mean one deserves the title. True artists are anything but lazy. The problem is much of our progress is difficult to measure in standard terms.
We are seen sitting staring at dust motes in the sun, following the patterns in the carpet, or getting lost in a movie. To the outside observer all of these things can be considered lazy, pointless even. What you can’t see, is the sifting process going on in our brains. If you don’t believe me ask an artist to tell you what they see in the film you watch together. Most people will tell you about the plot and the scenery or that really great actions sequence, we will tell you about the symbols and color pops, the way shots were framed, the use of music to set the tone, or the theological implications if such a thing were true.
A true artist never gets a moment alone, our heads and hearts are filled with images and ideas that like hungry children are begging for our attention. I cannot remember a time when I did not have the next painting forming and shaping itself in my mind, a character in a book not yet written pleading to have their nose described and defined by my words, or some great void of inspiration begging to filled. They are always there, when I am driving, brushing my teeth, and trying to sleep.
And like children, I tell them they can wait. I tell them I will see to their needs in a little while, and like children, they know when they are being placated so I can have moment’s peace. So many of us develop methods of coping. For me it is pacing, I pace with determination and purpose. So much so that if you were to study the padding beneath the living room carpet you would find distinct levels of compression indicating my paths.
Adding to the chaos is the number of voices, if you are or love a creative person you know that we have a million and one great ideas. We have to figure out which ones should be ignored and which ones should be embraced and nurtured. I have rejected a reoccurring idea to dye myself purple, writing random bits of poetry on the walls of my home, and welding a sea horse like apparatus to the hood of my car. I would like to say I rejected these ideas because I realized their impracticality, but the truth is I have yet to find the right shade of purple, my landlord wouldn’t appreciate the graffiti, and I don’t know how to weld.
So I have to figure out what I can do with the tools at hand, and getting to that idea requires tremendous concentration and focus – hence the pacing. Sometimes, I have to take more drastic measures to scatter the ideas enough to pick a single one from the foray. This means Air Supply has to be blasted from the stereo and I must sing loudly and off key until the proper level of tranquility has been reached. And the really sad thing is, I don’t even like Air Supply.
Then and only then, can I begin to work. Now, I call this work, others would probably call it a series of false starts. As with this blog post which was started and deleted four times to date. To the average on looker it could appear as a wasted effort and an abuse of time, but I know that all of this starting, stopping, creating and destroying is a part of the process. It’s the winnowing of the words and images that I am trying to capture. It is working out the impurities and refining the molten ideas of my heart. There are no short cuts. It is a simple surrender to something that others may not understand or value.
I think this is why so many artists must work in seclusion. We need the freedom to file our nails, and stare at our faces in the mirror before putting pen in hand, brush to canvas, or finger tip to key. The weight of scrutiny is just too much to shoulder when you are already laden with so many sensations both tangible and esoteric. We don’t need to worry about appearing strange or odd to a perplexed audience. I also think this is why there are so few famous women artists, but that is a post for another time.
Creation is labor intensive. It always has been. Even God declared the need for a rest after his endeavors. Not that he needed one, but he knew that we would need a space in time to silence all the demands of the creative process. He understood that taking a moment to consider dust motes would allow us to rest in the greatness of a God who created even these insignificant bits of wonder.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Don’t Flinch – Part 2
In the last post I retold the story of the Woman at the Well from my perspective. As I said, I love this story because I know it all too well.
Once upon a time, I was well versed in the faith of my family and culture. I knew the proper forms of worship, the hope of the return of the Messiah, and I thought I knew all the right Bible answers. But once upon a time, I got married to a man who renounced his faith shortly after the ceremony and our marriage crumbled into a game of survivor. One I had to win if I was going to save my children and myself. I got out and tried to make a life for me and my girls, but it was a rough go.
Many people could not grasp how a good Christian girl could get a divorce or how I could wind up married to such a man that would make divorce the only option. I must not have prayed enough or I wasn’t submissive enough. There was sin in my life or I didn’t have enough faith. Not many were brave enough to speak these words aloud, but they didn’t have to. It was there in their eyes, in their offers to pray with me, and in the quiet way they would ignore the ugly facts of my existence.
I learned you don’t go to the well in the morning. Everyone was there ready with that pitying but condemning look. The whispers were low, but not low enough. So I learned to avoid the crowds, draw into myself, take comfort where I could find it, even in a few relationships that were less than holy.
When I would meet a new Christian, someone who did not know my story, I learned to tell it with a note of defiance and an unspoken dare to condemn if they must, but get it over with. I learned to accept the fact I was too far gone to be of any use to God or his people. Like the Samaritan woman I had too many strikes against me.
Worship was hard, my faith seemed as stagnant and dead as the water in that seep of a well but it was all I had. So I learned to make do. Fake it. Act like it was enough, all the while I was dying.
I hated the Holy Flinch, that involuntary reaction that good Christian people have when they are in the presence of sinners. The one we are taught is a gauge of our holiness. Oh, we are taught to hate the sin but love the sinner, but too often we fail to recognize there is no sin separate apart from the person. So often the sin has become the definition of who they are – as in, “Oh, you mean the divorced woman who sits in the back at church.” We begin to shy away from that person, as if their sin was going to rub off on us, like God wouldn’t like it if we came home smelling of divorce. Our kindness is marked with that boundary of “I will give you this, but don’t come any closer.” In the end, that type of kindness is crippling to the receiver.
My perception of God began to shift over time. I mean, if his people flinched then surely he flinched. And if he flinched, it had to mean one of two things, my sin was that great or he was that small. Either way, it meant there was no hope for me. I was lost, endlessly and miserably lost, and there was not a God who loved me enough or was great enough to save me from my reality. My façade was crumbling and my faith was a tattered rag too full of holes and too worn to be warm in the coldness of life.
But then came the day, when I went to the well and stared into its depths and wondered why even bother to lower the bucket. I would just be thirsty again, why prolong the inevitable? So I sat waiting my demise, wondering how long it would take to kill off those last vestiges of faith, and he showed up. I didn’t believe him at first. My ability to hope, to dream of great things for myself and my girls was dead, but somewhere in the deepest part of who I was I knew that when the Messiah came he would explain everything. And when he sat beside me on the edge of that well, that is exactly what he did.
He explained how there is plan and purpose for us all. He told me how there is not one moment of my heartache and pain that would be wasted. He told me he was big enough and great enough to redeem it all to his glory. He said his holiness could never be sullied by my sin and shame. He shared how his heart’s desire was to resurrect all this world had killed within me, and called me back to life. He shared a drink with a disreputable woman who had given up hope, until he saw me and didn’t flinch.
Once upon a time, I was well versed in the faith of my family and culture. I knew the proper forms of worship, the hope of the return of the Messiah, and I thought I knew all the right Bible answers. But once upon a time, I got married to a man who renounced his faith shortly after the ceremony and our marriage crumbled into a game of survivor. One I had to win if I was going to save my children and myself. I got out and tried to make a life for me and my girls, but it was a rough go.
Many people could not grasp how a good Christian girl could get a divorce or how I could wind up married to such a man that would make divorce the only option. I must not have prayed enough or I wasn’t submissive enough. There was sin in my life or I didn’t have enough faith. Not many were brave enough to speak these words aloud, but they didn’t have to. It was there in their eyes, in their offers to pray with me, and in the quiet way they would ignore the ugly facts of my existence.
I learned you don’t go to the well in the morning. Everyone was there ready with that pitying but condemning look. The whispers were low, but not low enough. So I learned to avoid the crowds, draw into myself, take comfort where I could find it, even in a few relationships that were less than holy.
When I would meet a new Christian, someone who did not know my story, I learned to tell it with a note of defiance and an unspoken dare to condemn if they must, but get it over with. I learned to accept the fact I was too far gone to be of any use to God or his people. Like the Samaritan woman I had too many strikes against me.
Worship was hard, my faith seemed as stagnant and dead as the water in that seep of a well but it was all I had. So I learned to make do. Fake it. Act like it was enough, all the while I was dying.
I hated the Holy Flinch, that involuntary reaction that good Christian people have when they are in the presence of sinners. The one we are taught is a gauge of our holiness. Oh, we are taught to hate the sin but love the sinner, but too often we fail to recognize there is no sin separate apart from the person. So often the sin has become the definition of who they are – as in, “Oh, you mean the divorced woman who sits in the back at church.” We begin to shy away from that person, as if their sin was going to rub off on us, like God wouldn’t like it if we came home smelling of divorce. Our kindness is marked with that boundary of “I will give you this, but don’t come any closer.” In the end, that type of kindness is crippling to the receiver.
My perception of God began to shift over time. I mean, if his people flinched then surely he flinched. And if he flinched, it had to mean one of two things, my sin was that great or he was that small. Either way, it meant there was no hope for me. I was lost, endlessly and miserably lost, and there was not a God who loved me enough or was great enough to save me from my reality. My façade was crumbling and my faith was a tattered rag too full of holes and too worn to be warm in the coldness of life.
But then came the day, when I went to the well and stared into its depths and wondered why even bother to lower the bucket. I would just be thirsty again, why prolong the inevitable? So I sat waiting my demise, wondering how long it would take to kill off those last vestiges of faith, and he showed up. I didn’t believe him at first. My ability to hope, to dream of great things for myself and my girls was dead, but somewhere in the deepest part of who I was I knew that when the Messiah came he would explain everything. And when he sat beside me on the edge of that well, that is exactly what he did.
He explained how there is plan and purpose for us all. He told me how there is not one moment of my heartache and pain that would be wasted. He told me he was big enough and great enough to redeem it all to his glory. He said his holiness could never be sullied by my sin and shame. He shared how his heart’s desire was to resurrect all this world had killed within me, and called me back to life. He shared a drink with a disreputable woman who had given up hope, until he saw me and didn’t flinch.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
New Marriages, Mirrors, and Stilettos
Hello everyone, I would like to reiterate the apology already given by David. I am so sorry that there haven’t been any new posts for a while. As many of you already know, I have recently acquired a husband after over a decade of being single and I am having to learn to balance my new responsibilities with my old ones.
The good news is that I am learning why marriage is God’s favorite metaphor for our relationship to him, and that means lots of material for new posts.
Ty and I are at day 53 of married life and are off to a good start. Sure there have had to be some adjustments, and yes, we are still learning how to live with each other – what things we need to change in ourselves and simply accept this other person who has become such an important part of our lives, and okay, we both have some habits that drive the other one up the wall, but knowing that you are loved allows you to move through the process with some grace.
In some ways, I feel sorry for my new husband. He married a slob. Now, I never mean to be a slob, but when I get focused on something, (like writing, researching for one of my lectures, painting, or putting together the next Pagus event), housework ceases to exist. Unfortunately, while I don’t notice things like dishes piling up in the sink or the mound of books and papers growing on the couch, he does. And even more than that, there are things that you do when you live alone that another person might not appreciate, like make-up exploded all over the bathroom counter, notes written in marker on the dresser mirror, or using the car as a place to store extra shoes and such.
When you are by yourself stuff like that doesn’t matter, but suddenly now it does. Until now, I wasn’t even fully aware of the path of chaos I left in my wake, leaving books, papers, clothes, and half empty coffee cups behind me as a testament to my progress. I did not think anything about skipping meals just so I wouldn’t have to interrupt my flow of work or staying up all night to work on a project. It was how I lived, and as a single person it worked.
Adding Ty to my life was like someone holding up a giant magnifying mirror to it. Not that he complains (that much) or gets angry about my shortcomings as a homemaker. (No, domestic skills don’t come pre-installed with the ovaries.) Suddenly there is this person in my life who is affected by the way I live, by the priorities that dictate my activities, and I am having to learn how to accommodate him.
(And yes, I have kids, but they were like lion cubs raised on the Serengeti plains. They were acclimated to the chaos and believed it was perfectly normal to forage for food on their own, avoid natural disasters like book avalanches, and that coffee was needed for adult respiration.)
It took a relationship. It took a deeply intimate relationship for me to care enough to change some of my habits. No longer can I shove all the things I want to be hidden into my bedroom when company comes over. I can’t close that door to him. No longer can I put off grocery shopping until there is nothing but rice and steak sauce in the refrigerator, and when I do shop I have buy more than just coffee. Falling into bed at three in the morning isn’t an option; neither is leaving my stilettos in the middle of the floor.
Knowing God is like that. He comes into your life and for a lot of us we fine as long as we can entertain him in the living room, or simply serving him a special meal at the dining room table. It is when we truly let him in, all the way in to those intimate parts of our lives that we are shown how we are living, how habits and routines need to be changed if there is to be a place for him.
And no matter how much you love him, it isn’t always easy. It takes some work, and you are probably going to forget that plates need to be rinsed when you put them in the sink instead of leaving them on the coffee table, but the good news is he loves you enough not to go storming out the first or fifth time you screw it up. He doesn’t forget that he loves you just because he impaled his foot on a four inch high heel, and he isn’t out to change who you are. He simply wants you to have the best life possible, and usually that means change.
The question is how much do we trust him? Can we look at that mirror he shows us and know that it isn’t out of spite or malice that he presents us this image? Can we hold on to the love that desires only the best for us even when it is painful? Can we accept that we get things wrong, that we make mistakes, or that simply to move into our destiny we have to live a life where there is room for him and all things that come with him?
Marriage is one of God’s favorite images for his relationship with us because he wants to be that intimate. He wants to move out of the living room and see the bedroom that needs to be dusted. He wants a place to hang his shirts in your closet, and he has to have spot for his toothbrush by yours. And when you give him that you get so much more than you can ever imagine.
The good news is that I am learning why marriage is God’s favorite metaphor for our relationship to him, and that means lots of material for new posts.
Ty and I are at day 53 of married life and are off to a good start. Sure there have had to be some adjustments, and yes, we are still learning how to live with each other – what things we need to change in ourselves and simply accept this other person who has become such an important part of our lives, and okay, we both have some habits that drive the other one up the wall, but knowing that you are loved allows you to move through the process with some grace.
In some ways, I feel sorry for my new husband. He married a slob. Now, I never mean to be a slob, but when I get focused on something, (like writing, researching for one of my lectures, painting, or putting together the next Pagus event), housework ceases to exist. Unfortunately, while I don’t notice things like dishes piling up in the sink or the mound of books and papers growing on the couch, he does. And even more than that, there are things that you do when you live alone that another person might not appreciate, like make-up exploded all over the bathroom counter, notes written in marker on the dresser mirror, or using the car as a place to store extra shoes and such.
When you are by yourself stuff like that doesn’t matter, but suddenly now it does. Until now, I wasn’t even fully aware of the path of chaos I left in my wake, leaving books, papers, clothes, and half empty coffee cups behind me as a testament to my progress. I did not think anything about skipping meals just so I wouldn’t have to interrupt my flow of work or staying up all night to work on a project. It was how I lived, and as a single person it worked.
Adding Ty to my life was like someone holding up a giant magnifying mirror to it. Not that he complains (that much) or gets angry about my shortcomings as a homemaker. (No, domestic skills don’t come pre-installed with the ovaries.) Suddenly there is this person in my life who is affected by the way I live, by the priorities that dictate my activities, and I am having to learn how to accommodate him.
(And yes, I have kids, but they were like lion cubs raised on the Serengeti plains. They were acclimated to the chaos and believed it was perfectly normal to forage for food on their own, avoid natural disasters like book avalanches, and that coffee was needed for adult respiration.)
It took a relationship. It took a deeply intimate relationship for me to care enough to change some of my habits. No longer can I shove all the things I want to be hidden into my bedroom when company comes over. I can’t close that door to him. No longer can I put off grocery shopping until there is nothing but rice and steak sauce in the refrigerator, and when I do shop I have buy more than just coffee. Falling into bed at three in the morning isn’t an option; neither is leaving my stilettos in the middle of the floor.
Knowing God is like that. He comes into your life and for a lot of us we fine as long as we can entertain him in the living room, or simply serving him a special meal at the dining room table. It is when we truly let him in, all the way in to those intimate parts of our lives that we are shown how we are living, how habits and routines need to be changed if there is to be a place for him.
And no matter how much you love him, it isn’t always easy. It takes some work, and you are probably going to forget that plates need to be rinsed when you put them in the sink instead of leaving them on the coffee table, but the good news is he loves you enough not to go storming out the first or fifth time you screw it up. He doesn’t forget that he loves you just because he impaled his foot on a four inch high heel, and he isn’t out to change who you are. He simply wants you to have the best life possible, and usually that means change.
The question is how much do we trust him? Can we look at that mirror he shows us and know that it isn’t out of spite or malice that he presents us this image? Can we hold on to the love that desires only the best for us even when it is painful? Can we accept that we get things wrong, that we make mistakes, or that simply to move into our destiny we have to live a life where there is room for him and all things that come with him?
Marriage is one of God’s favorite images for his relationship with us because he wants to be that intimate. He wants to move out of the living room and see the bedroom that needs to be dusted. He wants a place to hang his shirts in your closet, and he has to have spot for his toothbrush by yours. And when you give him that you get so much more than you can ever imagine.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Paddling
Not to disappoint readers but this post does not deal with misbehaving children and the associated punishment. Instead this post discusses paddling, as in a canoe, to safety. My mind was drawn to this topic due to a Sunday morning sermon on Acts 27.
This chapter deals with Paul being taken to Italy via a ship. The really, really short version: the crew, the centurion, the other prisoners, and Paul didn’t make it to Italy due to a very bad seasonal storm. Paul had told them not to proceed since it was winter time and storms blew up unexpectedly.
Throughout the chapter, we see actions, such as lightening the load, taken by the ship’s crew to keep everyone alive and save the ship. While these actions are being performed, Paul informs them an angel of God has told him there would be no loss of life but the ship would be lost.
All of the crew’s attempts to save themselves and the ship were fruitless. The only "saving" action was to paddle for shore. Some crew members could swim and others clung to pieces of the ship.
Some times in life’s storms we attempt to take appropriate actions, after making an unwise choice, hoping to be safe but instead we have to jump in the water and paddle to safety. As in the chapter, God protects our life but we lose something due to our choice.
This chapter deals with Paul being taken to Italy via a ship. The really, really short version: the crew, the centurion, the other prisoners, and Paul didn’t make it to Italy due to a very bad seasonal storm. Paul had told them not to proceed since it was winter time and storms blew up unexpectedly.
Throughout the chapter, we see actions, such as lightening the load, taken by the ship’s crew to keep everyone alive and save the ship. While these actions are being performed, Paul informs them an angel of God has told him there would be no loss of life but the ship would be lost.
All of the crew’s attempts to save themselves and the ship were fruitless. The only "saving" action was to paddle for shore. Some crew members could swim and others clung to pieces of the ship.
Some times in life’s storms we attempt to take appropriate actions, after making an unwise choice, hoping to be safe but instead we have to jump in the water and paddle to safety. As in the chapter, God protects our life but we lose something due to our choice.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Christians in the wild and their natural habitat
As a child, I regularly watched “Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom”. “Wild Kingdom” was one of the first shows to bring exotic, remote areas of the world into people’s living rooms. Also, people got to see the animals in their native habitat and view the animal’s behavior. The show provided people a method of determining how a tiger differs from a cheetah or a zebra from a horse.
Over the last year, my LTS (Long Term Spouse) and I have been seeking a new church home. We have found a potential “home” that we have been attended for several months. This has given us the opportunity to view Christians in their natural habitat. Within this habitat, a lot of different Christians exist: babes, teenagers, mature, and senior.
This Christian family contains people who are emotional, some who are extroverted, some who are quiet and some who are vocal. But the common thread is they all belong to Christ through his blood, death, and resurrection. Whatever a Christian’s “style” is, one objective, for each Christian, remains constant: can you be identified as a Christian. We all at one time or another may exhibit non-Christian behavior which may allow us to show non-Christians we are not perfect.
Just think of a tiger: sometimes agile, quiet and other times clumsy, noisy. The basic nature of the tiger is to be agile and quiet but every once in awhile the tiger will stumble. A tiger doesn’t just sit down and admit failure. Instead the tiger continues on but learns from his mistake and to be careful. Christians should follow the tiger’s example: learn from our mistakes. We should not just sit down because of failure but continue because of it.
A great example of continuing on after a failure is Peter. Talk about a BIG boo-boo. Peter was in daily contact with Jesus and Peter still denied he knew Christ. But Peter was a rock on which the church was built. Also, Jesus had no doubts about Peter. In Luke 22:32, Jesus told Peter to “strength your brothers” when you have turned back. After Peter was “knocked down”, Jesus expected Peter to get up, dust himself off, and minister to people.
Christians live in a hostile habitat containing obstacles, perils, and worries. We should always be mindful that someone is watching and studying us in the wild (the world) and in our natural habitat (the church). Our objective should be a daily effort to be identified as a Christian.
Over the last year, my LTS (Long Term Spouse) and I have been seeking a new church home. We have found a potential “home” that we have been attended for several months. This has given us the opportunity to view Christians in their natural habitat. Within this habitat, a lot of different Christians exist: babes, teenagers, mature, and senior.
This Christian family contains people who are emotional, some who are extroverted, some who are quiet and some who are vocal. But the common thread is they all belong to Christ through his blood, death, and resurrection. Whatever a Christian’s “style” is, one objective, for each Christian, remains constant: can you be identified as a Christian. We all at one time or another may exhibit non-Christian behavior which may allow us to show non-Christians we are not perfect.
Just think of a tiger: sometimes agile, quiet and other times clumsy, noisy. The basic nature of the tiger is to be agile and quiet but every once in awhile the tiger will stumble. A tiger doesn’t just sit down and admit failure. Instead the tiger continues on but learns from his mistake and to be careful. Christians should follow the tiger’s example: learn from our mistakes. We should not just sit down because of failure but continue because of it.
A great example of continuing on after a failure is Peter. Talk about a BIG boo-boo. Peter was in daily contact with Jesus and Peter still denied he knew Christ. But Peter was a rock on which the church was built. Also, Jesus had no doubts about Peter. In Luke 22:32, Jesus told Peter to “strength your brothers” when you have turned back. After Peter was “knocked down”, Jesus expected Peter to get up, dust himself off, and minister to people.
Christians live in a hostile habitat containing obstacles, perils, and worries. We should always be mindful that someone is watching and studying us in the wild (the world) and in our natural habitat (the church). Our objective should be a daily effort to be identified as a Christian.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Emily's Rules for Witnessing, Well, more like guidlines, suggestions really.
A big part of our faith is witnessing, sharing the good news with those around us. For many Christians this is the most daunting task we have to face, and the reason is most of us don’t know how without ending up in an argument.
It is no secret that most of my working life has been spent in what most would consider rather worldly situations. I have spent a lot of time listening to the stories of those who have never heard about God’s love, heard distorted versions of it, or even been burned by the Church. During that season I learned a lot about talking to those who live outside our Christian bubbles, but more than that I learned the importance of listening to them. I learned many of the things that turn them off and keep them from hearing what we have to say. I also learned how engage them in conversations that help them move a little closer to God.
I wanted to write this post not as a way to brag on my abilities, but rather to share some of what I have learned. Hopefully, I can save you a few steps, and maybe you can avoid some of my mistakes.
Rule #1 - You have to keep the conversation going. You can’t share our message with someone who won’t listen to you.
Rule#2 – Conversations stop when you start being confrontational. We can’t force someone to believe what we believe, even if we know we are right. The shields go up, doors close, and all chances of having an important conversation are lost, sometimes for good.
Rule #3 – Correction is reserved for those who proclaim to share our faith. Anyone outside the Church or does not profess a relationship with Jesus is off limits. Jesus’ words of correction were reserved for those who proclaimed to know the law, not the Roman Centurion, not the woman who anointed His feet in oil.
Rule #4 – Listen. Listen. Listen. Chances are they already know the plan of salvation. You would be surprised at the number of people sitting around a bar who can quote chapter and verse better than most regular church goers. You are not there to fix them, you are there to show mercy and compassion to a world in need. You start by learning their story.
Rule #5 – Acknowledge their wounds, even those caused by sinful behavior. The pain is real, and dismissing it, or worse proclaim it as deserved, says we do not value them as a person. Remember Jesus never kicked a leper, nor did He beat the woman caught in adultery. We should follow His example.
Rule #6 – Answer questions about your faith as they arise. People will tell you what they are ready to hear, and if you don’t know an answer, don’t try to bluff them. Say you don’t know and offer to find out, and then do it. Most people appreciate knowing you cared enough to address their questions in a sincere and thoughtful manner.
Rule #7 – Never compromise your faith by engaging in behavior that negates your words, and if you do, acknowledge it. This is a great time to talk about God’s gift of forgiveness to you, and the experience of conviction over your sin. Remember this conversation is all about you, and not the unbeliever.
Rule #8- Don’t say things like, “Thank you, Jesus” when you have a flat tire. It comes across as insincere. Although you may mean it, no one will believe you, including me. Acknowledge that you are upset, and it really did nothing to brighten your day. Acting sanctimonious says either you aren’t human or you are hiding something.
Rule #9 – Make friends with nonbelievers, and don’t have an agenda. Trust me they can tell when you are plotting something. Get to know them because they have admirable traits, everyone has one, with some people you just have to look a little harder.
Rule #10 – If they are passionate about something and it violates no Biblical principle join them. You can learn some really amazing things this way, about their interests and about them as a person. You don’t need to teach them the Roman Road to salvation every time you see them, just hanging out is okay.
Rule #11- Know your limits. Going out into the world to share our faith is dangerous, know when to retreat, and have a plan in place for those times when things get outside your comfort zone. Usually a simple “time for me to go” is sufficient. Don’t try to explain why you need to leave, just firmly but gracefully make your exit.
Rule #12 – THIS IS THE MOST IMPORTANT FOR YOU! Establish a network of mature Christian friends to hold you accountable. Make sure they are the type of people who will ask you the hard questions and make you answer. If they say get out, get out.
The most difficult thing in this approach is learning how to have the conversations without compromising your position. It helps to use “I” statements, and avoid accusations. Pick your battles wisely, in this era of open mindedness and tolerance we can state what we believe as long as we aren’t forcing down someone’s throat. Most people love to talk about spiritual matters if they know they won’t be attacked. There may be times when you have to take a stand, but I have found all but the most belligerent of people don’t want to fight. More can be accomplished by giving them room to wrestle it out than trying to force a situation to a head.
It is no secret that most of my working life has been spent in what most would consider rather worldly situations. I have spent a lot of time listening to the stories of those who have never heard about God’s love, heard distorted versions of it, or even been burned by the Church. During that season I learned a lot about talking to those who live outside our Christian bubbles, but more than that I learned the importance of listening to them. I learned many of the things that turn them off and keep them from hearing what we have to say. I also learned how engage them in conversations that help them move a little closer to God.
I wanted to write this post not as a way to brag on my abilities, but rather to share some of what I have learned. Hopefully, I can save you a few steps, and maybe you can avoid some of my mistakes.
Rule #1 - You have to keep the conversation going. You can’t share our message with someone who won’t listen to you.
Rule#2 – Conversations stop when you start being confrontational. We can’t force someone to believe what we believe, even if we know we are right. The shields go up, doors close, and all chances of having an important conversation are lost, sometimes for good.
Rule #3 – Correction is reserved for those who proclaim to share our faith. Anyone outside the Church or does not profess a relationship with Jesus is off limits. Jesus’ words of correction were reserved for those who proclaimed to know the law, not the Roman Centurion, not the woman who anointed His feet in oil.
Rule #4 – Listen. Listen. Listen. Chances are they already know the plan of salvation. You would be surprised at the number of people sitting around a bar who can quote chapter and verse better than most regular church goers. You are not there to fix them, you are there to show mercy and compassion to a world in need. You start by learning their story.
Rule #5 – Acknowledge their wounds, even those caused by sinful behavior. The pain is real, and dismissing it, or worse proclaim it as deserved, says we do not value them as a person. Remember Jesus never kicked a leper, nor did He beat the woman caught in adultery. We should follow His example.
Rule #6 – Answer questions about your faith as they arise. People will tell you what they are ready to hear, and if you don’t know an answer, don’t try to bluff them. Say you don’t know and offer to find out, and then do it. Most people appreciate knowing you cared enough to address their questions in a sincere and thoughtful manner.
Rule #7 – Never compromise your faith by engaging in behavior that negates your words, and if you do, acknowledge it. This is a great time to talk about God’s gift of forgiveness to you, and the experience of conviction over your sin. Remember this conversation is all about you, and not the unbeliever.
Rule #8- Don’t say things like, “Thank you, Jesus” when you have a flat tire. It comes across as insincere. Although you may mean it, no one will believe you, including me. Acknowledge that you are upset, and it really did nothing to brighten your day. Acting sanctimonious says either you aren’t human or you are hiding something.
Rule #9 – Make friends with nonbelievers, and don’t have an agenda. Trust me they can tell when you are plotting something. Get to know them because they have admirable traits, everyone has one, with some people you just have to look a little harder.
Rule #10 – If they are passionate about something and it violates no Biblical principle join them. You can learn some really amazing things this way, about their interests and about them as a person. You don’t need to teach them the Roman Road to salvation every time you see them, just hanging out is okay.
Rule #11- Know your limits. Going out into the world to share our faith is dangerous, know when to retreat, and have a plan in place for those times when things get outside your comfort zone. Usually a simple “time for me to go” is sufficient. Don’t try to explain why you need to leave, just firmly but gracefully make your exit.
Rule #12 – THIS IS THE MOST IMPORTANT FOR YOU! Establish a network of mature Christian friends to hold you accountable. Make sure they are the type of people who will ask you the hard questions and make you answer. If they say get out, get out.
The most difficult thing in this approach is learning how to have the conversations without compromising your position. It helps to use “I” statements, and avoid accusations. Pick your battles wisely, in this era of open mindedness and tolerance we can state what we believe as long as we aren’t forcing down someone’s throat. Most people love to talk about spiritual matters if they know they won’t be attacked. There may be times when you have to take a stand, but I have found all but the most belligerent of people don’t want to fight. More can be accomplished by giving them room to wrestle it out than trying to force a situation to a head.
Monday, March 15, 2010
When I'm just not feeling it.
There are few things harder than acting like a Christian when you don’t feel very Christian. Now, I am not for sure exactly what a real Christian is suppose to feel like, but I always imagined it was somewhere between cotton candy and bunny fur. And truthfully, I feel more like a porcupines and electric fence, sometimes.
I think many people would be surprised at how seldom I feel Christian. Usually I am so busy trying to act Christian that feeling anything other than frustration would be miraculous. I know there must someone out there who manages to feel Christian. I mean I have always assumed that those people at church who always greet you with a big smile and a “God bless you” must feel Christian, at least on Sunday mornings.
I just don’t know how this feeling of being occurs. I have tried, but so far nothing has really worked. I don’t know if just didn’t get the secret decoder ring, I missed that particular sermon, or no one hit me with the right amount of fairy dust. I have been prayed over, anointed, and once pastor tried to shove me to the floor – but I was between him and the doughnuts. I mean if someone were to ask me how I felt right now, I would have to say I am vaguely grumpy and rather gloomy. Definitely not feeling Christian.
We all know that true Christians, or at least mature Christians, don’t have bad days. They smile all the time. They know the answer to the world’s problems and they would rather be caught without their underwear than without the right Bible verse for the occasion. They have sparkling smiles, well mannered children, perfectly groomed spouses, and they breathe in peace and exhale joy. They look forward to their turn in the church nursery, and they can whip out a casserole for the church potluck faster than I can sneeze. And I know that they act this way because they can feel just how Christian they are. They charming, gracious, and we all try not to hate them. Or maybe that’s just me, because the more I am around these people the less Christian I feel.
You see, I have bad days and a messy house. My car is never clean and my kids fight. I have a hard time remembering my phone number, let alone chapter and verse for anything. I can’t cook and when my car breaks down I don’t respond with a “thank you, Jesus.” I can be mean, jealous, and petty. I love a good fight and will sometimes start an argument just to have one. Sometimes I enjoy scowling at the world and I am a bit of a snob. I have kicked my dog and yelled at God when things haven’t gone my way. I don’t always feel Christian, so I don’t always act Christian.
The good news is that being a Christian isn’t based on my feelings. It is even based on my performance. It is something that goes beyond what I get right and what I do wrong. Being a Christian is not found in someone else’s perception of who and what I should be, or what they think I should be doing. Being a Christian is the result of a relationship, one that affects how I behave and changes who I am, but I don’t always feel it like I think I should feel it.
Sure I want to do better, but not because it makes me any more or less Christian. I want to be better because I want to the world to see the how knowing God has changed me. I want to please him in my deeds and words, even my emotions, but I have to wonder if we have gotten confused about the process of being conformed to the image of Christ. If somewhere along the way we began to think that being holy meant that we denied our emotions and suppressed our quirks so that we could become conformed to our ideas about what a Christian should feel like.
You see, being a Christian doesn’t mean that my miraculous transformation short circuited my mind or desires. My transformation began when I understood that my mind and desires don’t always agree with where God would have me, and confronting me where I am, as who I am. It is me being honest enough to say I have a bad days and I don’t feel like loving my enemies or even my friends all the time. It is me being willing to go to him when I am grumpy and asking for help, wrestling through the gloom with him, and not hiding from him until I feel right. Because the truth is on my own I will never get it right, I will never be good enough to feel Christian how I think a Christian should feel all the time.
I might be able to fake it on Sunday mornings. I might even hold it together for a Sunday night service, but by Wednesday afternoon, forget it. I am right back into the mess of me. Beaten up, cast down, and overwhelmed by all the things I do that don’t measure up to whom I think a Christian should be, and all my feelings say I will never make it, that I should just give up.
So if you are like me. If you ever have a bad day and wonder why you even try when you know all you are going to do is fail, take heart. You are not alone. We all have those days, and we all feel like we are failing sometimes. The question is what you do with those feelings? Do you let them dictate who you are? Or can you let your heart find hope and strength in God says you are? Because he loves us, even on grumpy days, sad days, and days we totally mess up.
I think many people would be surprised at how seldom I feel Christian. Usually I am so busy trying to act Christian that feeling anything other than frustration would be miraculous. I know there must someone out there who manages to feel Christian. I mean I have always assumed that those people at church who always greet you with a big smile and a “God bless you” must feel Christian, at least on Sunday mornings.
I just don’t know how this feeling of being occurs. I have tried, but so far nothing has really worked. I don’t know if just didn’t get the secret decoder ring, I missed that particular sermon, or no one hit me with the right amount of fairy dust. I have been prayed over, anointed, and once pastor tried to shove me to the floor – but I was between him and the doughnuts. I mean if someone were to ask me how I felt right now, I would have to say I am vaguely grumpy and rather gloomy. Definitely not feeling Christian.
We all know that true Christians, or at least mature Christians, don’t have bad days. They smile all the time. They know the answer to the world’s problems and they would rather be caught without their underwear than without the right Bible verse for the occasion. They have sparkling smiles, well mannered children, perfectly groomed spouses, and they breathe in peace and exhale joy. They look forward to their turn in the church nursery, and they can whip out a casserole for the church potluck faster than I can sneeze. And I know that they act this way because they can feel just how Christian they are. They charming, gracious, and we all try not to hate them. Or maybe that’s just me, because the more I am around these people the less Christian I feel.
You see, I have bad days and a messy house. My car is never clean and my kids fight. I have a hard time remembering my phone number, let alone chapter and verse for anything. I can’t cook and when my car breaks down I don’t respond with a “thank you, Jesus.” I can be mean, jealous, and petty. I love a good fight and will sometimes start an argument just to have one. Sometimes I enjoy scowling at the world and I am a bit of a snob. I have kicked my dog and yelled at God when things haven’t gone my way. I don’t always feel Christian, so I don’t always act Christian.
The good news is that being a Christian isn’t based on my feelings. It is even based on my performance. It is something that goes beyond what I get right and what I do wrong. Being a Christian is not found in someone else’s perception of who and what I should be, or what they think I should be doing. Being a Christian is the result of a relationship, one that affects how I behave and changes who I am, but I don’t always feel it like I think I should feel it.
Sure I want to do better, but not because it makes me any more or less Christian. I want to be better because I want to the world to see the how knowing God has changed me. I want to please him in my deeds and words, even my emotions, but I have to wonder if we have gotten confused about the process of being conformed to the image of Christ. If somewhere along the way we began to think that being holy meant that we denied our emotions and suppressed our quirks so that we could become conformed to our ideas about what a Christian should feel like.
You see, being a Christian doesn’t mean that my miraculous transformation short circuited my mind or desires. My transformation began when I understood that my mind and desires don’t always agree with where God would have me, and confronting me where I am, as who I am. It is me being honest enough to say I have a bad days and I don’t feel like loving my enemies or even my friends all the time. It is me being willing to go to him when I am grumpy and asking for help, wrestling through the gloom with him, and not hiding from him until I feel right. Because the truth is on my own I will never get it right, I will never be good enough to feel Christian how I think a Christian should feel all the time.
I might be able to fake it on Sunday mornings. I might even hold it together for a Sunday night service, but by Wednesday afternoon, forget it. I am right back into the mess of me. Beaten up, cast down, and overwhelmed by all the things I do that don’t measure up to whom I think a Christian should be, and all my feelings say I will never make it, that I should just give up.
So if you are like me. If you ever have a bad day and wonder why you even try when you know all you are going to do is fail, take heart. You are not alone. We all have those days, and we all feel like we are failing sometimes. The question is what you do with those feelings? Do you let them dictate who you are? Or can you let your heart find hope and strength in God says you are? Because he loves us, even on grumpy days, sad days, and days we totally mess up.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Hello, my name is Lionel
My LTS (Long Term Spouse) and I enjoy watching the British Comedy "As Time Goes By". The show contains basic relationship and family comedy; no smutty jokes or innuendos. The main characters, Lionel and Jean are an older couple who are each single after losing a spouse due to divorce and death. They previously had dated just before Lionel left for the Korean War. They are re-united by accident and date for several months before marrying.
While recently watching an episode, the interaction between Jean and Lionel caused me to ask my LTS why we so enjoyed the show. Her reply startled me: "Maybe we are a tad like Jean and Lionel".
Where is this crazy blogger going with this and how does this apply to the Christian life? Let me see if I can bridge the two spheres together. My LTS and I identify with the characters of Jean and Lionel because of their actions and reactions to life. They may have had bad things happen in their life, but it has not prevented them from enjoying the events occurring now.
Should Christians be identifiable by their character and behavior? How about their action and reaction when life occurs and the result-of-bovine-digestion hits the fan? Does the world identify us as Christians when life happens? Do we try, on a daily basis, to be seen as being a tad like Jesus?
There are days I have to answer a definite no to being identifiable as a Christian. The "stuff" has hit the fan and I don't feel very Christ-like. At times like these I';m very thankful to have One who can wipe off the "stuff" and help me to remember to be identified with Christ.
While recently watching an episode, the interaction between Jean and Lionel caused me to ask my LTS why we so enjoyed the show. Her reply startled me: "Maybe we are a tad like Jean and Lionel".
Where is this crazy blogger going with this and how does this apply to the Christian life? Let me see if I can bridge the two spheres together. My LTS and I identify with the characters of Jean and Lionel because of their actions and reactions to life. They may have had bad things happen in their life, but it has not prevented them from enjoying the events occurring now.
Should Christians be identifiable by their character and behavior? How about their action and reaction when life occurs and the result-of-bovine-digestion hits the fan? Does the world identify us as Christians when life happens? Do we try, on a daily basis, to be seen as being a tad like Jesus?
There are days I have to answer a definite no to being identifiable as a Christian. The "stuff" has hit the fan and I don't feel very Christ-like. At times like these I';m very thankful to have One who can wipe off the "stuff" and help me to remember to be identified with Christ.
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