A girl, about four, runs out of her house wearing nothing but a diaper, surveys the street, sees me riding my bike, turns around, dashes back inside and slams the door.
A young man in a pink T-shirt is doing construction work on the corner of Normal and Franklin.
On my first day of work I steal a furtive glance at my boss, dash outside, get a Diet Mountain Dew out of the vending machine, tip-toe inside and throw the cool lime potion behind the filing cabinet for later.
A man easily old enough to be my grandfather wears two cardigans and firmly clutches his Doritos as he waddles down the street fast as those arthritic legs will carry him.
A guy walks out of Baldwin with a sneaky grin, a messy haircut, and eyes that pierce like ice darts.
The weather turns from hot to chilly to snowy and back again, and nobody says a word but "Huh?"
A man in his seventies and a man in his eighties are drinking Dr. Pepper and Diet Mountain Dew, respectively, shooting the breeze, going from the price of a restored Ford Model-T to the price of life and death and the merits of a Do Not Resuscitate.
There is an unredeemed scratcher in my purse right now.
Monday, April 22, 2013
Friday, April 12, 2013
A Consummation Devoutly To Be Wished
Like most people, I had to read Hamlet in high school. It's one of my favorite Shakespeare plays because of the famous soliloquy: To be or not to be? Hamlet is contemplating suicide. He is stuck between life and death, compelled by that which he does not know and tormented by confusion. In other words, he is a college student.
I haven't taken a look at Hamlet since senior year of high school, during the Great Snowpocalypse of 2011, actually. But there's one phrase from Hamlet's soliloquy that has been haunting me lately, "Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished."
Now, let me be 100% clear. Although I am writing about a suicidal guy's suicidal thoughts, I am not now, nor have ever been, suicidal. I still remember that dark year back in middle my father was in Iraq, my body, mind, and friends were changing more quickly than I could handle, and I sat around brooding a lot. There was in the news a girl my age who had killed herself because she was bullied on the Internet. After the news segment ended, my mother said quite sternly that if I ever did kill myself, she would never stop being angry at me and my brother, then four, would be damaged for life, unable to love or trust again. I knew then, though suicide and depression were romanticized in the angsty preteen culture to which I then belonged, that they are no laughing matter.
But to be a self, to be a thinking thing, is exhausting. My mind races and flies. I can sit at my desk for an hour and think of a hundred different things and feel that no time at all has passed, that I am racing down highways, and sometimes they look like I-44, I-70, I-5...
To be a feeling thing is exhausting, too. To feel you own raw wounds, to see the anguish around you and take it on, like a cross... C.S. Lewis wrote, "To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung, possibly broken." I read that quote first in the Barnes and Noble in Independence, Missouri, shortly after moving to Kansas City, and did I know then what God had in store for me? No. I had not yet begun to love in this way. Even now, I am sure I do not really understand, but I have come a long way on those highways. Grace has brought me safe thus far.
Freud was right about a few things, dead wrong about a few more things, and in the middle on the rest. (In my scholarly opinion, having taken one class on him!) He wrote about the id, ego, and superego, how our superego continually has to keep the ego in check. Don't think this, don't feel or say that, and the superego continually pushes the ego down, down. On this, he was right. Preserving the self you think other people want you to be is endlessly wearying.
Hamlet is wrestling with a terrible uncertainty. I know what that's like. I think it's a universal human experience, to feel the same bundle of questions relentlessly claw at your mind.
And so, with Hamlet, we whisper longingly, "To die, to sleep..." and so end the mental gymnastics. But how do we die without dying? If we believe life still has meaning, if our God-given survival instincts still teach us to cling ferociously to this worldly existence, if we believe Jesus Christ died to conquer death, we don't want to really die. We just want to cease existing as a self for a while. But how do we do that?
Hamlet says "Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished." We want to lose ourselves in deep consummation, in holy communion, with something else. The gospel promises us this sweet death of self. When Jesus says, "Those who lose their life for my sake will find it," this is partly what he means. When we are lost in the mission of Christ, there is no more worrying about maintaining a perfect self. The Spirit will move us onto perfection. The Spirit will resolve our uncertainty, and sanctify it. The Spirit will enter into our grief and make us one with Christ in his suffering through that grief.
Mansur Al-Hallaj was a Muslim mystic who I studied in my Islam class. (Okay, okay, I had to Google the exact name.) He was focused on Tawhid, sacred unity with God, and caught up in trances, would say, "I am Al-Haaq" or "The Truth," an Islamic term for God. He talked about the Muslim mystic becoming like a moth drawn to the flame of God irresistibly and yet consumed. (And this was centuries before Otto talked about mysterium tramendum et fascinas, the terrifying and fascinating mystery that constitutes the sacred.) As a Wesleyan I believe in prevenient grace, that the Holy Spirit is active even in other religions, and this seems to me a prime example. We long to lose ourselves like a moth in the flame, long to feel there is nothing in us but God anymore. We yearn to say with Jesus, "I and my Father are one," and one day we will, because we are co-heirs with Christ.
Can we experience it now? It's an already/not yet thing, I think. Not yet, not on this side of eternity, will we truly lose ourselves in God. But already we can go a long way. Already we can give up our lives by committing totally to Jesus Christ, to place our identity and purpose in God instead of building up ourselves. Often we focus on the sacrifice this entails, and rightly so. But it is also profoundly liberating.
How else? We can pray, not by asking God for lots of things (although that's definitely a good thing to do-- after all, the Lord's Prayer says, "Give us this day our daily bread," quite petulantly, in fact), but by simply being with God. Sometimes, when I have had a very long week, I like to lay on the floor in my church and just do nothing. My brain starts racing, but I breathe deeply, feel the Holy Spirit filling up my lungs, and think about God's love enveloping me. I don't have to do anything to earn God's love. Just laying on the floor, he loves me infinitely more than I can imagine. And it's a sweet rest. Just as I am, just as I am, he loves me, and the me disappears before his greatness. I walk away strengthened to go do God's work. Contemplation and good works, works of piety and works of mercy, as Wesley would say, are both profoundly necessary. And in both, we achieve the consummation devoutly to be wished.
We can achieve the same trancelike state in other ways too. A youth pastor talked about how he loved shooting baskets in seminary, meditating on God's closeness, simply being with God. The same thing happens to me sometimes when I play badminton, or ride my bike, or have a friend braid my hair or give me a massage. Rest, God's rest....
I should add that my discovery of this consummation has been a great work of God's grace. When I read about contemplation first at about fourteen, I lit a candle (excited that I had been given candle privileges recently by my parents), sat on my bed, and expected some great enlightenment. But my mind just exploded and scattered and I felt nothing special. How slow of heart I was, and how patient of God, to slowly wean me off special feelings of spirituality to the meat of the word and of faith in the Holy Spirit whose wind I do not know but whose movement is always with me.
And I have a long way to go. I am writing about this in part because I am in need of this consummation, to lay down for a while the relentless question-- what is my vocation?-- and give up my life in God. And God, in his grace, has lead me and will lead me still.
Hamlet is wrestling with a terrible uncertainty. I know what that's like. I think it's a universal human experience, to feel the same bundle of questions relentlessly claw at your mind.
And so, with Hamlet, we whisper longingly, "To die, to sleep..." and so end the mental gymnastics. But how do we die without dying? If we believe life still has meaning, if our God-given survival instincts still teach us to cling ferociously to this worldly existence, if we believe Jesus Christ died to conquer death, we don't want to really die. We just want to cease existing as a self for a while. But how do we do that?
Hamlet says "Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished." We want to lose ourselves in deep consummation, in holy communion, with something else. The gospel promises us this sweet death of self. When Jesus says, "Those who lose their life for my sake will find it," this is partly what he means. When we are lost in the mission of Christ, there is no more worrying about maintaining a perfect self. The Spirit will move us onto perfection. The Spirit will resolve our uncertainty, and sanctify it. The Spirit will enter into our grief and make us one with Christ in his suffering through that grief.
Mansur Al-Hallaj was a Muslim mystic who I studied in my Islam class. (Okay, okay, I had to Google the exact name.) He was focused on Tawhid, sacred unity with God, and caught up in trances, would say, "I am Al-Haaq" or "The Truth," an Islamic term for God. He talked about the Muslim mystic becoming like a moth drawn to the flame of God irresistibly and yet consumed. (And this was centuries before Otto talked about mysterium tramendum et fascinas, the terrifying and fascinating mystery that constitutes the sacred.) As a Wesleyan I believe in prevenient grace, that the Holy Spirit is active even in other religions, and this seems to me a prime example. We long to lose ourselves like a moth in the flame, long to feel there is nothing in us but God anymore. We yearn to say with Jesus, "I and my Father are one," and one day we will, because we are co-heirs with Christ.
Can we experience it now? It's an already/not yet thing, I think. Not yet, not on this side of eternity, will we truly lose ourselves in God. But already we can go a long way. Already we can give up our lives by committing totally to Jesus Christ, to place our identity and purpose in God instead of building up ourselves. Often we focus on the sacrifice this entails, and rightly so. But it is also profoundly liberating.
How else? We can pray, not by asking God for lots of things (although that's definitely a good thing to do-- after all, the Lord's Prayer says, "Give us this day our daily bread," quite petulantly, in fact), but by simply being with God. Sometimes, when I have had a very long week, I like to lay on the floor in my church and just do nothing. My brain starts racing, but I breathe deeply, feel the Holy Spirit filling up my lungs, and think about God's love enveloping me. I don't have to do anything to earn God's love. Just laying on the floor, he loves me infinitely more than I can imagine. And it's a sweet rest. Just as I am, just as I am, he loves me, and the me disappears before his greatness. I walk away strengthened to go do God's work. Contemplation and good works, works of piety and works of mercy, as Wesley would say, are both profoundly necessary. And in both, we achieve the consummation devoutly to be wished.
We can achieve the same trancelike state in other ways too. A youth pastor talked about how he loved shooting baskets in seminary, meditating on God's closeness, simply being with God. The same thing happens to me sometimes when I play badminton, or ride my bike, or have a friend braid my hair or give me a massage. Rest, God's rest....
I should add that my discovery of this consummation has been a great work of God's grace. When I read about contemplation first at about fourteen, I lit a candle (excited that I had been given candle privileges recently by my parents), sat on my bed, and expected some great enlightenment. But my mind just exploded and scattered and I felt nothing special. How slow of heart I was, and how patient of God, to slowly wean me off special feelings of spirituality to the meat of the word and of faith in the Holy Spirit whose wind I do not know but whose movement is always with me.
And I have a long way to go. I am writing about this in part because I am in need of this consummation, to lay down for a while the relentless question-- what is my vocation?-- and give up my life in God. And God, in his grace, has lead me and will lead me still.
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
When In Doubt, Sing A Charles Wesley Hymn
This Easter was beautiful and bizarre. So much that comes from God is. I heard a sermon that weekend that deeply offended me. The first thing that bothered me was the pastor preached on the walk to Emmaus, not, explicitly, the Resurrection. The Resurrection story is the foundation of our faith. It is at the very center of the Christian identity. And this was an Easter sermon!
But listening more closely, it became clear why the pastor could not preach the Resurrection that day. He was saying that Jesus heals us, takes our brokenness to make something beautiful, and that is the point of Easter. He even compared Jesus to Dr. Phil.
My Lord is not a TV doctor.
Easter is not about me.
Easter is not about Jesus healing me. To be sure, healing is part of Easter. But Easter is so, so much more. Easter means that Jesus Christ, the Son of God, is victorious over death. It means that we need to fall on our knees-- together as a church, not just me in my special "healing"-- and worship our conquering King.
Most theological questions can be addressed using Charles Wesley hymns. "Christ The Lord Is Risen Today" contained far, far more sound theology than the sermon I was hearing this weekend. Christ the Lord is risen today; Alleluia! First, seeing the empty tomb, we worship him.
And we do it joyfully! There is no joy like the joy of Easter morning, sun shining, organ blaring, people on their feet, voices full and golden. Jesus is alive! Woo-hoo!
The next verse, quoting Paul and Isaiah, says, "Where, O Death, is now thy sting? Alleluia!" Easter means that death is conquered. When I die-- if I die before Jesus returns-- I will be safe with God, and upon Jesus' return resurrected together with the rest of the saints to new life. What a far greater promise than abstract emotional "healing."
The last verse says, "Ours the cross, the grave, the sky! Alleluia." Easter means that we must go to our own Good Fridays, take up the cross and deny ourselves, as Jesus says, but in so doing know there is an end, our redemption is coming! Every tear, every drop of sweat and blood, is rewarded by God in the end. We will be caught up in the air, as 1 Thessalonians says, not to be "raptured" but to watch God's new creation! Alleluia! Easter means I have hope when I suffer.
And that's part of why I was so offended by Easter as a promise of emotional healing. Did God heal Martin Luther's emotional wounds? Or John Wesley's? Or Kierkegaard? Or Mother Teresa, who labored in her dark night of the soul for fifty years without relief? Or Paul, who wrote 2 Corinthians "out of great distress and anguish of heart" out of love for the church, who "despaired of life itself," who said that he was being crucified daily for the sake of the Corinthians, back in 2 Corinthians, chapter 4? Or, shoot, mine?
Being a Christian is not easy. Being a pastor is not easy, either. It means riding the roller coaster Paul describes in 2 Corinthians, at one minute full of that great distress and the next full of "great confidence and pride" for the flock.
Something in me snapped, hearing that sermon. I felt inexplicable rage, and I said something to the pastor on my way out that I won't repeat here. It wasn't highly inappropriate; I didn't swear or yell. I just asked a question that I hope shamed him.
I'm not saying I'm wise. Christ knows I have a lot to learn. But in that moment, I was mad as hell and just couldn't take it anymore, and I think God was, too.
Hebrews says that our God is a consuming fire. Consumed, burning up, aflame, no longer I but Christ in me, us now, united in suffering...
It was a strange Easter. But I think it was a good one. And best of all, Christ is risen.
Christ is risen, indeed.
Edit: Just want to make it crystal-clear that the person who preached this sermon is not in Kirksville, and who it was is quite irrelevant to what I am trying to do in this blog post.
But listening more closely, it became clear why the pastor could not preach the Resurrection that day. He was saying that Jesus heals us, takes our brokenness to make something beautiful, and that is the point of Easter. He even compared Jesus to Dr. Phil.
My Lord is not a TV doctor.
Easter is not about me.
Easter is not about Jesus healing me. To be sure, healing is part of Easter. But Easter is so, so much more. Easter means that Jesus Christ, the Son of God, is victorious over death. It means that we need to fall on our knees-- together as a church, not just me in my special "healing"-- and worship our conquering King.
Most theological questions can be addressed using Charles Wesley hymns. "Christ The Lord Is Risen Today" contained far, far more sound theology than the sermon I was hearing this weekend. Christ the Lord is risen today; Alleluia! First, seeing the empty tomb, we worship him.
And we do it joyfully! There is no joy like the joy of Easter morning, sun shining, organ blaring, people on their feet, voices full and golden. Jesus is alive! Woo-hoo!
The next verse, quoting Paul and Isaiah, says, "Where, O Death, is now thy sting? Alleluia!" Easter means that death is conquered. When I die-- if I die before Jesus returns-- I will be safe with God, and upon Jesus' return resurrected together with the rest of the saints to new life. What a far greater promise than abstract emotional "healing."
The last verse says, "Ours the cross, the grave, the sky! Alleluia." Easter means that we must go to our own Good Fridays, take up the cross and deny ourselves, as Jesus says, but in so doing know there is an end, our redemption is coming! Every tear, every drop of sweat and blood, is rewarded by God in the end. We will be caught up in the air, as 1 Thessalonians says, not to be "raptured" but to watch God's new creation! Alleluia! Easter means I have hope when I suffer.
And that's part of why I was so offended by Easter as a promise of emotional healing. Did God heal Martin Luther's emotional wounds? Or John Wesley's? Or Kierkegaard? Or Mother Teresa, who labored in her dark night of the soul for fifty years without relief? Or Paul, who wrote 2 Corinthians "out of great distress and anguish of heart" out of love for the church, who "despaired of life itself," who said that he was being crucified daily for the sake of the Corinthians, back in 2 Corinthians, chapter 4? Or, shoot, mine?
Being a Christian is not easy. Being a pastor is not easy, either. It means riding the roller coaster Paul describes in 2 Corinthians, at one minute full of that great distress and the next full of "great confidence and pride" for the flock.
Something in me snapped, hearing that sermon. I felt inexplicable rage, and I said something to the pastor on my way out that I won't repeat here. It wasn't highly inappropriate; I didn't swear or yell. I just asked a question that I hope shamed him.
I'm not saying I'm wise. Christ knows I have a lot to learn. But in that moment, I was mad as hell and just couldn't take it anymore, and I think God was, too.
Hebrews says that our God is a consuming fire. Consumed, burning up, aflame, no longer I but Christ in me, us now, united in suffering...
It was a strange Easter. But I think it was a good one. And best of all, Christ is risen.
Christ is risen, indeed.
Edit: Just want to make it crystal-clear that the person who preached this sermon is not in Kirksville, and who it was is quite irrelevant to what I am trying to do in this blog post.
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