There's Something in the Fog

But though He had done so many miracles before them, yet they believed not on Him.  -- John 12:37

Somewhere in the fog of time I may be able to stumble around until I trip over the very moment. At some point in my life I came to no longer blindly accept the precepts, tenets and doctrines I had been taught since that first Sunday my Mom took my sister and me to a little baptist church in my hometown. Even though the sign outside the church had words like, "Independent," "Premellinial" and "Pretribulational" on it, I was just a little kid, so in the beginning it was simple things. I learned the Bible stories, David and Goliath, Noah's Ark, the Beatitudes, and always, ALWAYS...did I know Jesus as my personal savior?

And it was an ambitious little church. I learned that the Great Commission meant soul-winning on Saturday mornings, stuffing the church bus with as many little kids as could be fobbed off by parents who would never darken the doorway of the church, and special Sundays where we just might, with a little prayer and a lot of work...get 400 into that little place.

Man! Those were halcyon days! I measured my spirituality by how many times I went to church in a particular week, how many chapters of the Bible I read, how often I prayed, and how detailed were my sermon notes. It was a simple Christianity, but then, I was just a kid! Everything was simple! My biggest concern was - would The Sporting News even mention Duffy Dyer that week (don't ask).

I remember arguing creation vs evolution with my biology teacher - wouldn't my youth pastor be proud of me? My heroes were the likes of Jack Hyles, Jerry Falwell, Curtis Hudson, and a whole string of Independent, Fundamental, Premellenial, Pretribulation, Dispensational, King James Only preachers. Going to church on Sunday was a given. 

Somewhere in that fog was a day when I came to understand that Christianty was indeed the opiate of the masses. It was a collection of myths designed to sedate us from the anxieties of a miserable and utterly meaningless existence. I began to question every-single-thing I had ever learned about God.

Reading was for me the principle vehicle of my discontent. From Brueggemann I learned that "those of us who think critically do not believe that the Old Testament was talking about Jesus..." Tillich, in turn, taught me that God was essentially an impersonal "necessary being". And of course, Nietzche instructed me in the art of killing God. After all, God "had to be killed because nobody can tolerate being made into a mere object of absolute knowledge and absolute control." 

Over time I came to understand that not only was Christianity a simple fable, it was a farce, a cruel lie that robbed people of freedom, subjugating them to a code meted out by weak men with control issues and delusions of grandeur. It gave false hope, and just plain made people, ah - who am I kidding? The fact is - it made ME miserable.

Somewhere in that fog of time Christianity became nothing more than a vapor. But here's the weird thing - I actually know how it all started. I can't see through the fog of time clearly enough to see the date on the calendar, but in my mind's eye I can pinpoint the exact spot when it all changed for me. And it all started in church.

It was in the Men's Sunday School class when the pastor was discussing the miracles in the Gospels. I don't know by what twist of thought it happened, but for the first time in my life I heard the miracles and thought, "Oh reeeeally now." Up until this moment I had always thought of the miracles in the Gospels as the great proofs of the Christian faith. But as I listened, I began to run through all the possible explanations, to rationalize how the "miracles" actually happened. No longer able to accept the isolated fact of each story, I became utterly baffled by each telling. Bit by bit the very foundation of my faith evaporated into the fog until what remained of the superstructure of faith shook, teetered and collapsed at the first breezes of the coming storm. 

Since those days, some of which are only now beginning to dissolve into that murky fog, I have begun to see the miracles of The Christ a little differently. I don't know if it's because I can't or because I won't, but I no longer see the miracles as an obstacle - I no longer see them as the bulwark of faith. Rather than as isolated evidence, I've begun to see the miracles as a treasure... God reaching down to man, providing us with memories of how much He loves us, loves me.

Lord, Help Me Forgive

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil:  for thou art with me... Psalm 23:4

This kind of post is difficult to write.  As Paul so aptly pointed out, there lies within each of us two natures.  Never has that been more true in me than at this moment.  In my last post I confessed that I have hatred consuming me from within, and whined about how I wrestled with it.  Then this weekend, during the funeral of my dear, sweet Grandmother, I joked about it, made light of it, and even acted out a bit - much as a petulant 6th grader would do.  I know better.

Let me tell you how I know better.  For one, the very person for whom we were gathered taught me forgiveness.  You see, my mother and grandmother have always had an incredible relationship, one that could stand as a model.  When I was a teenager (and probably a thousand times before and since) I greatly wronged my mother.  Yet, years later when I "returned to the fold" so-to-speak, Gram welcomed me with open arms and that sincere loving smile, that smile that started with her eyes and ended with, "I love you Georgie."  I don't think I ever apologized to Gram for the wicked ways I treated the family, but she forgave me - just like that.  That was my Gram.

Then there's my mom.  Again, I can't imagine (and frankly don't wish to) how many times I hurt my mom.  I have done things in my life that, in most families, would create an unbridgeable chasm, yet mom has forgiven me so thoroughly and completely that I can barely imagine it.  Not only has she told me a million times (okay, hyperbole makes good copy), to forgive others, she has shown forgiveness, not only to me, but even to others whose forgiveness I could never picture.  That is my mom.

The rotten part of this is - it's all so very convicting.  Man!  I have this gut-kicking hatred in me.  Fury, berserk and perverse.  But not only do I hate this person, I hate that I hate this person.  I cannot continue to live this way.  It eats at me.  Like anyone else, I have a job that can be stressful, responsibilities that can keep me up at night, worries of the silly to the serious.  But this hatred, this fire inside, consumes me at times, it is the single most stressful thing in my life.  But why?

Because I was afraid.  That's right.  This person is a thief of the worst kind.  This person has stolen the trust and love of numerous people, stolen it, stomped on it and trampled it to a fine dust.  And this frightened me.  I had already lost so much to this person, and was afraid that I would lose the one thing, the one person I don't think I could bear to lose again.  And so this fear evolved, no - DEvolved, into hatred.  But I no longer fear.  I am no longer afraid.  And with the security of knowing that the thief cannot steal what cannot be stolen, I begin to think with a clearer mind.

I once asked my uncle how to deal with this hatred and anger.  His answer, so simple and profound, was - pray for him, it's hard to hate when you're praying FOR someone.  And that belies my dichotomous nature.  I have been praying, then I acted the boor.

My prayers went something like this:  "Lord, please strike him down."  I'm ashamed to say that, yes, I prayed that - for a long time.  After talking to my uncle, "Lord, teach me what to pray for him."  A couple days ago my prayers began to be more, "Lord, open his eyes."  Then, "Lord help!  I don't know what the hell to pray!"

I had a three hour drive today, and during a lot of it, I found myself praying.  My prayers started out with just thanking God for giving me such an incredible grandmother and such a wonderful mother.  Of course, I spent some time being selfish, prayers like, "Lord, help me be as loving as Gram and mom."  Then something happened...

Now, I don't have one of those relationships with God where he talks to me sounding like James Earl Jones or Sean Connery, but I gotta say, I had a very distinct message come to me.  I was praying about this hatred within me, when I suddenly was overcome with the knowledge that I MUST forgive this person.  I'll be honest - I immediately said a few cuss words and refused, but as I drove, I realized that this is what The Christ would actually do.  This is what Jesus actually did.  He forgave.  And so, this is what I must do, lest my Christianity be even more of a sham than I've already made it.

I don't know how it will work from here.  I don't know how there will be reconciliation or how relationships will be healed across the board.  When all are ready, I trust that God will make that happen too.  But in the meantime, I sincerely take the example of Gram, the forgiveness I have witnessed my mother bestow, and try to emulate He who has forgiven this wretched being.  I forgive, Lord - help me forgive.

Hatred

Not too awfully long ago I was embarking on a spiritual journey, a journey that saw my daughter’s accident bring me closer to God than I had ever been.  In the months after the accident, I realized a closeness and joy I had never before experienced.  Those were truly halcyon days. 

Since then, I struggled with how to keep Christianity real in my life.  I loathe cliché Christianity, the kind of Christianity that puts a, “God is my co-pilot” sticker on the back bumper, while cursing and waving the middle finger at the guy who cut into the lane too close.  Or the Sunday-go-to-meetin’ kind, who are overly-emotional, glad-handing “Amen”-shouting kind, who spend the other six days of the week living like hell with no apology, unless the preacher’s around that is.  Yeah, I know, I’m a judgmental pr&%$.  But I don’t wanna fake it!  That’s right, this time around with Christianity, I have endeavored to be real about it – warts and all.

This seems like it could be pretty liberating doesn’t it?  Be who you are, no apologies – just be real.  So I did, so I am.  I swear too much still, and it bothers me.  Sometimes I make a conscious effort to watch my mouth, a lot of times I find myself praying about it.  But I’m not gonna hide it.  I try to be socially appropriate, but I’m certainly not pretending to be something I’m not.

And I seem to be okay with that.  It’s a process.  When I took the first steps in this journey, I kept asking Uncle Harold what Christianity looked like.  How was I to take what The Christ had done inside me and translate that to my life – how was I to live a REAL Christian life?  I don’t remember now exactly how Uncle Harold addressed this, but I do know that it came down to what Philippians 2:12 said:  to work out my salvation with fear and trembling.  So that’s exactly what I have been doing, and not by wearing a “WWJD” band on my arm. 

And of course, most of the time I fail.  And I am failing worse now than ever.  You know how, when something in your life just isn’t right, you feel that gnawing inside?  That nudge of conscience – conviction of the Holy Spirit?  Well, I have that one in a BIG way right now because I have a serious, deep-seated sin branding the innards of my soul with the word, “HATRED”.  This is hard, because it’s a very real, very serious hatred and frankly, I just don’t know what to do with it.

One thing that troubles me is that people often think they can just quote a Bible verse and that’ll take care of the problem.  But merely quoting scripture without God behind it simply renders scripture – cliché.  It is the Balm of Gilead with no power, the cure-all, merely snake oil!  Scripture quoting won’t get the job done here.

I don’t have all the answers (even though I often try to convince everyone that I do!).  I don’t know how to change this hatred, hatred so profound that it, in very real ways, hampers my relationship with God.  I know I don’t want to walk away from God (again), but I also refuse to pretend I’m one kind of Christian, when inside, a worm tunnels through the core of my soul, leaving me to squirm and writhe at my own sin.

Running

Attend unto me, and hear me: I mourn in my complaint, and make a noise; - Psalm 55:2

I'm a runner. The very first memory I have of running must come from around 1971 or 2. My parents were sitting on the front steps with our neighbors, and some of my friends and I were playing (who knows what). Whatever we were playing required us to run and I remember running around the house and (I know this is hard to believe but it's true) thinking, "I wonder if they (mom and dad maybe?) see how fast I can run!" I also recall my mom sending me to the store for cigarettes (sorry mom), and running to Cozy Corner as fast as I could and back, just so someone would notice how fast I was.  I ran in high school, in the Army I ran (forget the jokes here), and even as a middle age adult I've been a runner.

So there, I'm a runner in a very real and literal sense.  But I've also been a runner in a figurative, metaphorical sense.  I spent the better part of my life running.  As a teenager I "ran away from home."  My perception was that things were so bad at home.  You know - that typical adolescent angst.  In reality, the reasons I ran from home were quite simple - I had rules, and I didn't want them.  

I have spent the better part of my life running.  As a young adult, my wife and I changed churches more often than West Virginians change underwear (I should probably delete that, but nah).  We always seemed to be looking for something better, something more.  In reality, we (and here I should really say "I") kept changing churches because I wanted more opportunity to be noticed.  I kept looking for a church where I could be somebody.  

I've spent the better part of my life running....just ask my kids.

I've spent the better part of my life running.  If anyone reading this knows me - then you know I have run from God more times than...ah - insert your own metaphor here.  You would also know that's been a big concern for me this time around - that I would leave God, simply put my Bible in the drawer and who knows - maybe a few years from now pick it up again.  

No.  I'm not running right now.  But this idea seems to be a theme around me right now.  Several people I know and care about seem to be struggling with the idea that somewhere else, something else, someone else may be better than right here, what they're doing, or the person they're with.  I don't know.  I don't have all the answers for everyone (I barely have the answers for me).  But this I do know...

No matter where I go, there I am.  I have no idea who said that.  I Googled it and the origins have been attributed to Confucius, a cartoon character, a rock band, and even some guy in North Dakota that insists he was the first to say it in 1954.  Another thing - I usually hate cliches, but sometimes they say more than I could say in a thousand pages.  You see, in all the running I've done, be it literal or metaphoric, whenever I arrive at my destination - there I am.  Me.  I'm still there.  And every   single   time, I brought me with me.  All my shortcomings, deceits, lies, and just plain stupidities came with me.  I wasn't running away from others, I was always running from myself.

I don't know when it finally happened.  I don't know if it was Ashley's accident, or some other (relatively) recent time or event, but I have finally stopped running - at least for today.  Circumstances have forced me to come face-to-face with the me that's always there.  And you know what?  Yeah, there've been tough moments, but all-in-all, it hasn't been too awfully bad.  

An English novelist, Terry Pratchett, said, "Light thinks it travels faster than anything but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it."  I find that to be an interesting concept.  I suppose there are many theological arguments and/or sermons that can speak to this, but I leave that for the professionals.  It simply says to me ...No matter where I go, there I am, I'm already there.

None of this is to say that change is always bad.  But I think, for the first time in my life I've come to realize that I need to think about my motivation for change.  Is it because it's a good thing, or am I running from myself?  Then there's the whole God's Will thing.  I don't mean to minimize that in any way.  I just haven't matured enough to understand exactly how we know that - what is God's will?  But I do know that, when faced with "big" things these days, I find myself praying about it, you know - "he shall direct thy path..." 

I realize I am the last person on earth to, in any way, preach...but if I could say anything to the people in my life who are looking for...I guess I would have to say this:  pray about it.  Get on your knees and ask God to hear your complaints, your moans and groans.  Ask Him to show - am I running from myself?  What would you have me do?  Yeah, I know...it's always easier to tell someone else how to live, but believe me - I'm trying to learn to do the same thing.  Running can wear one out.

Fear Knocks at the Window

"...because fear hath torment..." - 1 John 4:18  


Last week my Grandfather died.  He went more peacefully than anyone I had ever seen.  I know that sounds weird, but I have seen dozens (dare I say 'in the hundreds'?) of people pass away in my life, and I honestly can't recall anyone "going" so calmly.  And here's the thing about that - I'm not talking just about the moment he actually passed.   


You see, several months ago Gramps was diagnosed with lung cancer.  From what I hear from family, he seemed to accept his fate right from the start.  In the last couple months of his life, I had the honor and pleasure to spend just a bit of "quality time" with Grampa.  In those times, the most amazing thing that stuck with me (aside from the really cool stories he told me) was just how at peace he was with his coming death.  One day Grampa and I were talking and he asked several questions about "timing", essentially he was asking who would go first - him or Gramma.  When I told him that he would likely go before Gramma would, he just stated that that was good, he just never wanted to hear the words that Gram was gone.  I even asked him flat out if he was scared or upset about dying...in his own inimitable way, Grampa just said, "no."  And in the limited number of hours that he and I spent together in those last couple months, I never once heard him complain, and he never, not once, gave any sign that he was scared.  This I find amazing.


Don't misunderstand what I say next.  I don't purport to be one bit a hero - understand that.   Okay, I have faced the very distinct possibility of death a few times, mostly (I think entirely) in battle.  I was scared, there's no sense in pretending - I was.  But there's something about those moments when you realize that you HAVE to do something to prevent it, and the sense of self-preservation completely and entirely takes over.  Doesn't mean I wasn't scared, and it certainly doesn't make me a hero.  But in those moments, had I died, it would have been in the course of fighting back.


Then there's the thought of insidious death, the death of a disease that may grab hold and take time to take one away.  Watching Grampa, I have often wondered - would I, could I ever be so brave and peaceful?  My entire family attributes Grampa's peacefulness to his faith in Christ, and that may very well be so.  But I wonder if I would ever have that kind of faith.  


This is a hard one to write.  There's a decent possibility that my family may read this, and I hate the thought that my kids may see, yet again, a glaring weakness in their father, but alas - this is about truth.  In my head I know that God is there.  I have read, re-read, and read again, the many promises of God.  That to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord.  Even the verse used in this post says, "There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear."   My head knows these things.  But, to be honest, I still struggle with believing these things.  Hart Crane wrote this poem in 1917:


The host, he says that all is well
And the fire-wood glow is bright;
The food has a warm and tempting smell,—
But on the window licks the night.


Pile on the logs... Give me your hands,
Friends! No,— it is not fright...
But hold me... somewhere I heard demands...
And on the window licks the night.


I fear that's more how I would be.  Afraid of the night outside the window.  Don't misunderstand, even though I was a big chicken as a little kid, I've pretty much outgrown most silly fears (with the exception of the occasional, really good scary movie).  But when it comes to what-comes-next, well frankly - I still struggle with that.  When my day comes, will I sit in my chair shaking, fearful of what waits outside my window?  Will my last days be so consumed with fear that death comes with a mighty, sniveling torment?  I can imagine myself in terror.  What an awful picture.  


Faith.  Faith.  Faith.  Grampa, in his silence and by his example, has shown me what I still lack, still yearn for. 

I am what I am

"But by the grace of God I am what I am:"-1 Corinthians 15:10

I am what I am...good grief!

On Easter Sunday, Harold preached a message entitled (I think), "Most Miserable".  This was the day after Grampa passed, and the day we celebrate the resurrection of The Christ.  Truly a day of mixed emotions!  It was a good message, appropriate for the day, but as is typical for me, I remember one thing Harold said over all others.  "Most of us live somewhere between Most Miserable and Perfect Peace."  Just a day-or-two before, I had a conversation with Harold about this very blog.  You see, I am what I am. And because of that - I worry and I persistently live closer to most miserable than to perfect peace.

I worry about my motivation for this blog.  Since my last post (I think almost a year ago) I have written several times, but just couldn't pull the trigger on actually posting.  Because I worry.  I worry that I write to try to impress.  I worry that these inane ramblings may be some attempt to draw attention to myself.  And that is contrary to what I want.  I have spent (and I mean spent) the better part of my life, doing things in an effort to gain peoples' approval.  No more.  At least that's what I said when I endeavored on this leg of my spiritual journey.  I wanted this Christianity to be real - or not to be at all.  No more pretending to be something I'm not.

So I started this blog and at some point I began to think that maybe, just maybe, I was writing to gain approval.  So instead of simply being conscious of this...instead of going to Christ and seeking HIS approval - I just stopped.  No great loss to the world by any means...but for me it was.  It was a loss to me because I began to dwell on how unworthy I was.  I allowed the doubts, the fears and the analyzing to cripple me.

Radiohead sings this song called "Creep."  Don't worry, I won't sing it to you, but here are some of the lyrics:

I want you to notice
When I'm not around
You're so very special
I wish I was special

But I'm a creep

I'm a weirdo
What the hell am I doing here?
I don't belong here…

THAT'S what I focused on.  My fear of myself.  Clinging to my worthlessness.  Fears of being disingenuous.  There came a point where I really did wonder what the hell I was doing here.  I didn't belong here.  I am most miserable.  But...


Paul didn't just say, "I am what I am," and just throw up his hands and walk away.  There's more to the verse and the context of I Corinthians 15.  Paul was talking about the resurrection.  Christ had risen and was seen by scores of people, including Paul!  THEN Paul says, "...I am the least of the apostles, that am not meet to be called an apostle, because I persecuted the church of God.  But by the grace of God I am what I am: and his grace which was bestowed upon me was not in vain..."

It would be easy to not write anymore.  Oh, I'd miss it because I enjoy writing, but like anything else - it would be easy to just quit.  And I suppose if I were going to do this for the attention and in my own strength - then I SHOULD quit.  But I'd like to see what would happen if I really trusted in the grace of God.

What if I wrote something and was quite pleased with it, then before posting it I pray.  Ask God to check my heart.  Ask God to help me not write for adulation.  Not write for attention.  What if I did this every time?  Maybe sometimes the grace of God would point out to me that I was being a jerk.  Maybe, on a minute-to-minute, day-by-day basis I could learn to trust in the grace of God rather than trying to be a show-off.  Perhaps, just maybe, the grace that God has bestowed on me would not then be in vain.

Thanks Harold.