Ethan Renoe's Blog, page 13

New favorite book: ‘Tattoos on the Heart’ Review

Photo by Homeboy Industries (Father Greg in the middle)

For some reason, I like having favorites. I ask many people their favorite movie, song, band, or book, and most act like it’s something they couldn’t even fathom thinking about.

“Just one??” as if the idea of a favorite was a new concept to them.

But for whatever reason, my brain enjoys organizing everything into a neat and tidy hierarchy which rarely changes, but when it does, it feels like a big deal. To me. And because it feels like a big deal, I want to share about it.

High stoke levels make all of us evangelistic. 

Anyway, since I read Notes from the Tilt-A-Whirl in 2014 and The Great Divorce in 2016, they’ve sort of been tied for my favorite books of all time. But now a new contender has entered the fight; a book which had me in tears every night I dared pick it up. It’s not so sad that you avoid reading it—the book is packed with humor which made me laugh out loud, and each chapter seemed to sink into some deep place within me which beckoned me to rise up and become better than I am; to see God as bigger than He was before. 

But I’m getting ahead of myself. 

None of this matters. 

The point is, you need to read Tattoos on the Heart pronto, so let me tell you more about it. 

I recently described the book to my friend Elliot and I mentioned that one of the former gang members got shot and died. 

“Dude!” he exclaimed. “You can’t spoil the book for me!” 

What Elliot did not know, however, was that the cover portrays a casket beside some Catholic saint candles, implying the burial of yet another gang member. In 2017, 7 years after its publication, Father Greg (referred to as ‘G’ in the book) says he has buried 220 kids killed by gang violence.

So, telling you that there is a hefty amount of tragedy in this book by means of gang participation is not so much a spoiler as much as an introduction to the book. The question is not, Will there be violence and death? but, What do we do in the face of such overwhelming hopelessness, tragedy and loss? Do we lose hope and get discouraged, or do we keep trying for a better world?

Father Greg Boyle has answers for just those questions, and *spoiler* he doesn’t lose heart and give up. 

The book is essentially a collection of vignettes from his 30+ years working with gang members in LA. He moved into the barrio and one of his first hobbies became riding his bike around from neighborhood to neighborhood (each run by rival gangs) and get to know the inhabitants, urging them toward peace. 

Over the years, he shares lessons learned along the way and how his ministry—Homeboy Industries—became the largest gang rehabilitation organization in the world. I kept thinking I’d get tired of reading about each different gang member that walked into his office, or whom he picked up from prison, thinking that each one will have the same story, but G paints each individual with such care and heart that the stories never get dull across the span of 200 pages. I’m presently reading his second book, Barking to the Choir, which is essentially just Part 2, and I still haven’t tired about reading about these endearing, sweet, and wounded gang members. 

Don’t read these books is swearing bothers you more than death. Gang members cuss, and G presents an honest picture of them (and himself) without censorship. That aspect almost made me like it more; it’s not a squeaky clean ‘Christian book’ like we may be used to, and in my opinion, that only adds to the power of it. He also pulls from plenty of voices outside the typical Christian quotesters (C.S. Lewis and Chesterton), like the Dalai Llama and the poet Hafez.

There are a plethora of times these teens, with their face tattoos and baggy pants, are judged by outsiders, or where they surprise Boyle with a witty one-liner. I seriously laughed out loud often while reading in bed. 

Not every biography ends in tragedy either—while many of the gang members were buried prematurely, others were able to build a new life for themselves. These would often tear up while examining where they came from and how they ended up wherever they are now—married with kids and a ‘clean’ job. 

The reason this book hits me so hard is because the life of gang members is about life and death: two words we middle class caucasians use often, but don’t experience in our day-to-day lives. 

Gang members do. 

They are terribly acquainted with how it feels to put your homie in the ground. And then to do it again a few weeks later. They are no stranger to domestic abuse and drug addiction. Generosity and grace are foreign to them. 

In one episode, G notices that two brothers—abandoned by their parents with no one to care for them in the world—only have one pair of clothes. He gives them a Sears gift card and tells them to go get themselves some new rags. 

The brothers tear up and the younger asks the older, “Why do these people care about us? No one cares about us.”

This—gang life—is an issue more Christians need to care about and get involved in. If we care about such life-and-death issues as abortion or police brutality, then we also need to make room on that list for gang warfare. The plague of gangs in our communities is a life-or-death issue. And the solution is not harsher laws or higher prison walls—it’s love. It’s creating a new type of family so these hurting souls don’t need to find their family in a violent gang. 

If the world is going to be healed, it will not be through political reforms or juvenile detentions; it will be through the love, presence, and patience of organizations like Homeboy Industries.

One of the most infuriating concepts for Father Greg is the notion that some lives matter more than others. One semi-famous celebrity was caught in gang crossfire in LA, and detectives were reassigned and blocks were shut down. That same week, 8 gang members were gunned down and not one block was shut down or investigator reassigned. 

It’s as if these humans are denied the divine spark once they join a gang—or if they’re from the South Side of Chicago. Does the image of God evaporate upon being jumped in?

Since starting Tattoos, I have been looking into getting involved in gang rehabilitation in my own city, and I hope you do the same. I hope that, in the words of G, you worry less about how you stand, or how you look while standing, but that you focus on where you stand—beside the outsiders and low lives, beside those whom Christ stood with. Will we put ourselves in proximity to those who might make us uncomfortable, or will we stay curled up in our gated communities, safely away from those who don’t look/act like us? Don’t let the face tattoos scare you—the most fierce looking homies are often the most hurt.

My dad says that 50% of ministry is simply showing up. 
Love means inserting ourselves near those who need love the most. 

Tattoos on the Heart asks us, Will you show up? 

Will you offer yourself to those who need love the most?

e

Don’t blame your break-up on God: A rant.

I would seriously be a rich man if I had a nickel for every time I heard someone break up with their boyfriend or girlfriend. It drives me nuts.

God—the Ground of all Being, the Dweller in Deep Darkness, the Mystery beyond Knowledge—told you to dump your bf? He may not have done much for your life, or for the framework through which you see reality, but you are certain that this deity told you it wasn’t working out.

It couldn’t possibly have been the fact that he plays video games 5 hours a day, or that she whines every other sentence.

Now, some of you may accuse me of drawing up a false dichotomy here. God, the Painter of the Cosmos, is indeed concerned with every molecule of His creation—He is incredibly precise. He cares about the raging pandemic infecting the world, as well as the death of a blade of grass in my front yard.

So yes, He is involved in our relationships and our endings of them. Or at least, He cares about them…His involvement in them is questionable.

It would sure be nice if the god we read about in the Bible was reduced to a Magic 8 Ball which we shook when we wanted answers. But here’s the catch: that would mean that sometimes it would give you answers you don’t like.

Have you noticed that whenever God tells someone to end a relationship, they don’t seem too bummed about it?

“Yah Jerry, I’m sorry. God just told me that we just should just be friends, because, like, I just didn’t feel peace about it.”

There are also an abundance of ‘justs’ when Christians have awkward conversations. Or pray.

Imagine if God actually told someone to end their relationship. It probably would not be what that person wanted, for one. I mean, where in the Bible does God tell people to do something and they say Oh phew! That’s what I was hoping you’d say!

God tells Abram to leave all of his land and his family. He also tells him to sacrifice his firstborn son.

He tells Moses, a timid shepherd, to stand up to the powerful Egyptian king, and later, that he won’t enter the Promised Land.

Jesus tells all believers to pick up their crosses (torture/execution devices) daily.

BUT GOD TOLD YOU TO DUMP YOUR BOYFRIEND WHO YOU DIDN’T LIKE THAT MUCH ANYWAY!

Next time one of your friends begins to say that God told him/her to dump their significant other, probe their motives. Are they saying that simply because it’s what they want, but they don’t want to shoulder the blame for hurting someone else?

Or did the Holy One of the Deep audibly tell you Jenny wasn’t their wife?

Don’t you feel silly now?

This is what’s called a ‘hermeneutic of suspicion.’ It seeks to examine the human motivations beneath a theological construct. The most obvious example of this is the Indulgences which were sold in the Middle Ages. Did the God of Eternity really sign off on some little slips of paper which would reduce your time in purgatory? Or was there a human motivation behind the sales of these documents?

See how it works? That’s why the entire idea of purgatory has largely been debunked because the evidence pointing toward human invention/greed was far too great to ignore.

So is your break-up monologue just as laden with theological fallacies as the Catholic church of the Middle Ages? Are you putting blame on God for something that was never in His mind to begin with?

How about next time, instead of dating a shlub named Matt who chugs Rockstars while playing Call of Duty, you just use some discernment and don’t put yourself into a dud of a relationship to begin with?

How about you don’t ask out Tiffany—who you know you won’t get along with, but she looks like Emily Ratajkowski in yoga pants—and inevitably have to end it down the road?

Although I believe God doesn’t tell you to break up 99% of the time, the Bible is dense with verses urging you to seek some wisdom.

How about instead of waiting for God to miraculously speak into your 2020 of a relationship, you build a little wisdom so you don’t find yourself in the same dead-end flings?

e

Read more of Ethan’s reflections on dating in his new book, Bad Timing!

The Tragic Divorce of Christianity from Culture: A Manifesto

This past weekend in church, a video was shown to the congregation and by the end of it, not an eye in the auditorium was left dry. In the video, a woman in her early 30’s was sharing the story of the past 5 years in her life. She was diagnosed with breast cancer, and after a year of struggling with it, was in remission. Some time later, however, it returned and not just to her breasts—but to her bones and blood as well. A year ago, the doctors had told this young woman that she had 5 years to live.

More recently, they reduced that estimation to 5 months.

“There were a lot of things I expected to do,” she explained with more strength than I would ever have. “I thought I’d get my doctorate and get married and have kids…” (I’m paraphrasing all this from memory)

She went on to explain how, rather than raging against God, she has adjusted and expanded her theology. “People have been asking me, ‘how can you love a God who would take your life away from you at such a young age?’ But I respond that His goodness and His plan is not predicated on my experience; it doesn’t depend on my heath or diagnoses.”

She then explained that she herself feels like she is expanding. Initially it sounded a bit woo-woo as she began, but once I caught onto her meaning, it made perfect sense. Rather than hoping in, and being shaped by earthly things (wealth, job, family, status, friends), she was beginning to tilt toward eternity. She was beginning to eagerly hope more for eternal things than earthly ones.

Inevitably, this is going to make one feel larger.

Philosophers have juggled similar concepts, albeit in the the absence of God—the removal of earthly attachments yields freedom. Camus longed for such an experience, and…perhaps he now has it. The Buddha also sought to rid himself of earthly desires, which lead to suffering.

While the tears filled my eyes and I watched this brutal five-minute video, an age-old question filled my mind, followed by a newer one. The first was, What else could possibly matter more than THIS?? What could be more important than knowing Jesus and then connecting others to Him?

It’s not a novel thought. Most Christians, hopefully, ask themselves this on a regular basis.

I’m forced to ask myself this every time I hear of something tragic, or weighty, happening. My brother’s housemate died of Covid-19 two weeks ago.

He was 26.

Suddenly I’m forced to ask myself, if I had known him, how much more would every moment have mattered? Would I have benefitted his life in any way? Am I benefitting the lives of those people I do know every time I’m with them, the way Jesus benefitted those around Him? Did this kid know Jesus in his brief stint on our shared earth?

What else matters during our handful of years on earth more than knowing God and making Him known?

This question implies that there is nothing more important than those two sides of the same coin. There is nothing more valuable than knowing Christ and Him crucified (Philippians 3). However, it also implies that many of the things we would otherwise spend our time on would be time wasted, and as John Piper taught us, there is little worse than wasting our lives. And I concur, though I might disagree on the application here.

This all led to the second question which entered my mind while seated in church, clenching tears back thanks to this woman’s testimony. The question was more of a thought than a formulated sentence; after all, like Beckett said, “words are the clothes thoughts wear.” So, the question, as well as I can articulate it in language, was something like this:

If nothing else matters but knowing God and introducing others to Him, how do we go about doing this?

This led to a myriad of rabbit trail-like thoughts sprawling across my consciousness trying to figure this out. It led me to one unavoidable dead-end of reason:

Culture is the language the world speaks. Trying to articulate the gospel of Jesus to a community, while trying to remain removed from its culture, is like trying to share the gospel with a Guatemalan without first learning Spanish.

Sure, the more sociologically/philosophically inclined among you may point out that language is perhaps the most chief element of a culture, but you get the point. Attempting to share the Good News of the victory of Christ to a hurting world while remaining pure of the very culture in which the world partakes is very near impossible and a fruitless effort.

What would be the goal of such an undertaking? To similarly pull others out of the culture of the world so they can join you on the sidelines? Sounds like a bummer of a religion to me. Doesn’t sound too much like good news.

It also requires there to be a “Christian culture,” and a convert to Christianity must leave their culture and join that one. In America, we certainly have a Christian culture, and by most appearances, it’s like the Chinese knockoff version of the rest of culture, just without nearly as much talent, quality, or honesty.

In my experience, there has been one major exception to this statistic: heavy metal. For at least a decade, the biggest heavy metal bands were Christian bands (August Burns Red, P.O.D., The Devil Wears Prada, The Chariot, etc.), and I’ve often wondered why these Christian bands could seamlessly skirt the divide between the secular and the sacred. I don’t have many explanations of my own, save that many of the themes of the Bible translate well to the metal genre: Just read any of the Older Testament prophets and tell me they don’t sound like heavy metal lyrics. But I digress.

—

Wait, what are we talking about?

Now before I continue, let’s pause and define some of our terms.

When I say culture, I mean all of it: The images, symbols, language, and activities found in every pocket of every civilization. And there are hundreds if not thousands of subcultures in the US alone, but there is also a larger, more sweeping idea of culture. If we’re honest, it seems to tilt more toward the liberal ideation politically and socially, and has a strong inclination toward freedom, autonomy, peace, and expression. None of these things are bad in and of themselves, but let’s pocket that and come back to it.

In past decades, the church has been painted as the Grinch who is opposed to all things fun, expressive, and new. Nothing highlights this better than films like Footloose, where the old-school buzzkills are trying to shut down anything that remotely resembles dancing. Why? What was it about the act of dancing that seemed to trigger their fear sensors and prompt them to stomp it out?

I’m no sociologist or historian, but I would guess that it dates back roughly 200 years, give or take, when the cultural power began shifting hands from the church to other rein-holders such as science, reason, politics, and the arts.

For the first 1500 years of her existence, the Church was the dominant source of cultural production. Painters did their best to portray heaven and hell; Handel composed choruses which seemed to elevate the listener far above their fleshly husks as he praised God with deafening Hallelujahs; and even the most significant literature was written as means of explaining theology (Luther’s 95 Theses, the first publication to ‘go viral’), or exploring the human contribution to an ethically-rich universe (Dante’s Divine Comedy).

Rather than poopoo certain forms of art and expression, the church was the main entity in the world promoting it! Most, if not all, of the world’s most famous artists would not have been known if not for the church. They were rivaled perhaps only by the Medici as patrons of the arts for over a millennium.

Does that sound like the church you know today? Granted, there are obviously churches with incredible, authentic creative output today who promote art and creativity in all its forms, but that’s not the larger perception of the church when critiqued by the outside.

When I say culture, I’m also not referring to simply agreeing with everything the larger population agrees with, and condoning sin or other unnatural activities. Saying that I am, for lack of a better term, pro-culture does not mean I simply let myself be carried along by the cultural narrative of the world, wherever it may lead.

Let me give a somewhat controversial example.

Last year, the Preachers N Sneakers Instagram account blew up and ignited countless debates on the internet about how pastors should be spending their money. Some (rightly) bemoaned how obnoxious it is for a pastor (or anyone) to wear a $5,000+ outfit. Other defended them—how? By saying that these expensive duds help them connect better with the culture at large.

“How else is a pastor in LA going to connect with a fashion-heavy culture unless he’s wearing Off-White and Gucci??” went the argument.

“I don’t know, use your imagination. Shape culture instead of following it,” I’d respond.

Most of my outfits, all told, can range from a total of $5 to $75 (shoes, pants, undies, everything), and I have never been accused of being fashion-backward. In fact, quite the opposite. Many people have told this thrift shopper that everything I wear is super cool and they like my style. Perhaps the most empirical proof that I’m certified cool is that on the second day of teaching 7th graders this semester, one of them asked where I got my style from (again, in like a $60 outfit). If a 7th grader thinks you’re fashionable, then you have, indeed made it.

The reason for that rabbit trail is simple: Being connected to a culture does not necessitate making all the missteps the culture at large does. Relating to a fashion-saturated area like Los Angeles does not necessitate that one become as greedy and materialistic as the rest of the population. All that means is that you’ve given in to the temptation of avarice; you’ve caved to the carnal desire of having the same hip material objects your neighbors do.

This is not what I mean by being an active participant in culture.

This applies to our sexual ethics and actions (you don’t need to sleep around to relate to people who do), our approach to substances like alcohol, et al.

Going back to Footloose, it has always puzzled me how Christians could, at any point in Christian history, demonize something which is highly praised and sometimes commanded in Scripture. The same applies to alcohol, as Paul encourages Timothy to have some wine to help his stomach, though I can see why there would be more caution around that one. It’s not like you can overdose on dancing.

This, however, seems to be the great perception of Christians to the world. We are not the creative powerhouses we once were; we are the cosmic snobs who drift above the dirty fray which is the rest of the culture. Thank God Jesus didn’t have the same attitude when He looked down from heaven upon this world which, according to astronauts returning into earth’s atmosphere, smells like rotting meat.

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How I became a Native American

I once was sitting on a plane beside an older Native American man. He said the most Native American thing possible to me. He asked where I was from and I said I was born in Colorado, but I’m not a Native American.

He protested, “you sound like it to me. You’ve eaten the food from this land all your life. You are a native.”

We kept chatting and he told me that he has spent much of his life working in prisons, helping inmates reform themselves to be more fruitful members of society.

“You know what the difference between prison programs that are successful versus those that aren’t?” he asked me.

How the heck was I supposed to know?

“The successful ones know how to create a culture which people enter into. People are formed by a culture, for better or worse. When you have a positive culture, people can point at someone who is violating the values of that culture and say, ‘hey bro, you’re not benefitting the way we live here right now.’ Then that guy has to change to fit in. If the prison doesn’t work to create a culture of positivity, of peace and love, then people will act good and go back to the way they were before once they’re out. Culture changes people.”

I’ve thought about that conversation on the plane for years, and applied it in youth ministry and my classroom. People may remember 5% of the words you say, but they will remember 100% of the impression you made on them, or that your culture made on them. This is why, no matter how many times a church insists, “No, no, God loves you!” someone can still feel rejected for one reason or another.

For instance, years ago I had a friend who was on the fence about church. She showed up half the time, and even when she did, she was skeptical about being there. Was it because she disagreed with the messages about loving our neighbors as God loved us?

No.

It was because one summer, she showed up to church in a cute summer dress and one of the ladies at the church looked down at the hem of her dress and said, “Cute dress…Where’s the rest of it?”

From then on, how could my friend avoid going to church without feeling immense judgment, or at least, scrutiny? Who would want to be in an environment like that?

Years ago, I realized that if a lack of love is what drives people out of the church, only a surplus of love will drive them back. It is rare that a purely logical or scientific motive drives people from church, or draws them to it. It’s almost like Jesus told us something similar…

Creating a culture of love is the only thing that will draw in and then heal a love-starved world.

No one was  ever sanctified with measuring sticks, sarcasm, condescending comments, or policing the wardrobes of nervous outsiders.

Put a little logic behind that older woman’s statement: Her words revealed that she saw the path to enter the kingdom of God was trotted by wearing long enough dresses and then judging the dresses of others. That’s the kingdom she was working toward, and it makes sense that my friend didn’t want to go in with her.

Imagine Jesus hanging out with one of the vulnerable prostitutes who seemed to magnetize to Him and rather than encourage her, Jesus says, “Nice toga…where’s the rest of it?” How long do you think the crowd of ‘sinners’ would keep chilling with Him if He had that attitude?

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Sin is sin, but most are not.

The parts of this cultural conversation that seem to be the most volatile are those that are perceived as ‘wrong,’ which are not really condemned at all in Scripture. Maybe it’s a slippery slope which could slide someone into a life of ruin, but the act at the moment is not actually sinful.

For instance, as mentioned above, alcohol is not only allowed by Scripture, but encouraged at one point. Drunkenness is condemned, and that is exactly where most people jump in this conversation, but simply having a drink is not.

As mentioned above, dancing is also a questionable activity despite how highly it is spoken of in Scripture. Ask any good old Baptist and they’ll confirm: Sex leads to dancing. Why is this?

It likely has roots in the logical fallacy of a slippery slope: Allow dancing and before you know it, your young people will be grinding and then having sex right there on the dance floor. Or maybe it’s because the dancing bodies of women will cause the men watching to think lustful thoughts and stumble into temptation.

There are a myriad activities, symbols, and words which our culture has appropriated for their own purposes, and to retaliate, the church has simply demonized those things. A recent example of this is the rainbow. Our culture has taken it to represent the LGBTQ+ community, and rather than continue an open conversation on how we interact with that community, we’ve simply begun to bristle whenever we see a rainbow-anything. I’m guilty of it too. I’ll see a picture of a rainbow and automatically associate it with the movement, rather than seeing it for the symbol it is.

Others have taken this attitude further, becoming angered at the sight of a rainbow-colored anything. See how the meaning beneath the symbol is what some people may disagree with, yet the symbol as a whole is suddenly demonized? Take this anecdote and you can apply it to nearly everything the church has ever demonized.

It’s sad that we are known for having such a fearful mindset. Even things with darker connections, like pentagrams, Ouja boards, or Wiccan people result in an immediate door closure from Christians. What if we learned to see the people behind these outward symbols or activities rather than writing them off from the start? It doesn’t mean Ouja boards aren’t dangerous, but I also don’t think they are something to fear, and I definitely don’t think we should avoid those who use them. Those other people equally made in God’s image.

What if we learned to speak the language of their culture, rather than dismissing it as evil, dangerous, or bad?

Isn’t that what you would want if you were in their shoes?

Imagine if earlier Christian missionaries had this attitude toward indigenous people they witnessed to:

“Welp, they pray to trees, dance naked, and worship the sun. They’re beyond hope. Let’s try to get them to be more like us.”

Did you notice how one of those things is not inherently antithetical to Scripture? What are the things that reflect your comfort level among your peers more than the things the Bible actually encourages in us? What are the activities and symbols you see around you which are also not inherently evil, yet we shut them down in the holy name of our religion nonetheless?

Not everything associated with sin is sinful.

Not everything associated with evil is evil.

Learning the difference between the two—between associations and actual rebellion—will help us relate to our culture immensely.

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Is ‘divorce’ a bit dramatic?

Now to the title of this post. I chose it very carefully for a reason. When two people are married and undergo a divorce, what happens? Practically speaking, they segregate their finances (resources), they change their language, and they sever all other relational ties. I want to focus on the first two for a moment.

Prior to the Reformation, the church was not only a powerhouse of culture, but also of global healing. Who was responsible for feeding the hungry, taking care of the sick, and looking after orphans and widows? Was it the State? Well, sort of. Mainly, it was the church. That’s why there are a million hospitals named after saints, and none named after atheists. And we could debate until we are blue in the face the pros and cons of having a church who holds hands with the king, but it was a care-machine to be reckoned with.

Martin Luther swings his hammer as he pounds in the 95 Theses and effectively shatters this mighty entity into countless denominations and factions with as many resources to heal the world as an ant has to fix up a house. Unwittingly, however, Luther was still an old-school Augustinian, meaning he was holding onto the idea of a theocracy, or a City of God where the church is welded to the governing body of society.

The Reformation inevitably led to the Scientific Revolution, the Enlightenment, and ironically, the divorce of the Church from the State. It was a long-lived romance (You could measure it either from the conversion of Constantine, or from the crowning of Charlemagne by Pope Leo III. Either one is an equally repugnant representation of Imperial Christianity), but with the modern day celebration of the separation of Church and State, we can look backward and see that it’s probably better when the Church keeps its paws out of royal coffers.

With this divorce, however, the church suffered both a loss from the resources of the State, and therefore, can help fewer people per capita, leaving the State to be the great ‘Hand That Feeds,’ rather than the faithful. It also seems to have resulted in pulling the Church out of the culture at large. No longer are the greatest artists alive creating works to glorify their Maker as encouraged by the Church, but they are patronized by a secular culture which celebrates their creative achievements more than the Church does.

In this divorce, the secular State got the creative culture and the financial means of healing the world, and the church is left with…theological debates and the apparent corner on who is in and who’s out? No wonder no one wants to go to church anymore…

And what about the second main effect of a divorce? Well, within a loving relationship, the two members develop a certain language which is spoken only by them. It takes time to build and they know what the other means by their words, even if no one outside the two of them would. It’s a sort of secret code known only to them.

When a breakup occurs, reason psychologists, that unique language will never be spoken again.

Their speech to one another becomes cold and alien. It might be legal and robotic now. They communicate past one another, rather than with one another.

The same has happened in our churches.

The language used seems to alienate outsiders more than draw them in. It may be comforting to those inside the church, but does it even make sense to outsiders? After the divorce of Church from Culture, we have lost much of the ability to communicate our intentions or beliefs to those unfamiliar with them.

I can recall many interactions with atheist friends of mine where we may be using similar-sounding words, but saying two completely different things. For instance, I once told a friend I’d be praying for him, and rather than at least acknowledge the kindness of the sentiment, he took offense that I’d condescend to him or try to convert him behind his back. It’s almost funny how different the two approaches to that conversation were.

When I, and most Christians I know, offer to pray for someone, it is a sweet, selfless gesture which has only the purest of intentions. Yet when the secular culture hears the same phrase, they take offense.

Why?

Because we have undergone a divorce and no longer speak the same language. To ignore this fact, and to act like nothing has happened and we can just chat with any old atheist and expect to embed the same meaning as they do into our words is just ludicrous.

That’s why we need to learn to speak the same language as our culture.

Sure, we may all be speaking English, but we are not speaking the same language. Christians who seek to distance themselves from culture (typically for the purpose of seeking purity or holiness) will never effectively speak into the very world they hope to evangelize. They are Essenes, living on the outskirts of the city, not affected by it, but also not having any significant effect on the population within the city’s limits either.

They may seek to obey the commands of James 1, being unpolluted by the world, but in their efforts not to sin via worldly temptation, they make themselves as effective at healing the world as a eunuch is at having babies. Being unpolluted by the world doesn’t mean we plug our ears and close our eyes, refusing to participate in any aspect of the world whatsoever; it simply means we don’t participate in the sinful acts the world does. And in my opinion, there is a wide berth between familiarizing ourselves with our culture and sinning.

For example, at the risk of sounding too self-righteous, I have never had sex, been drunk, gotten high, or even sworn. Yet I have never felt alienated from our secular culture at large. I could pinpoint cultural references in music, movies, television, and other celebrity phenomena, because it interests me. In that sense, I’m living proof that one can be in the world and not of it; that you can participate in and contribute to your culture without being polluted by it.

Ingesting cultural media does not automatically pollute the sincere believer. I would argue that it can have the opposite effect: building more bridges to our neighbors and secular friends. Familiarizing ourselves with the same things the world talks about can only help our witness, undoing the reeling pain of the divorce we have suffered from it.

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The Most Important Thing

Now, bringing this all back to the beginning. I once more ask the question, What could be more important than knowing Jesus and introducing others to Him?

The answer is still: Nothing.

However, to stand on that hill like a glorified martyr earns no points either. Because, someone who touts that phrase and plugs their ears to the cultural songs may very well know Christ, but he will be a failure at introducing others to Him.

If we want to effectively bring others into relationship with The Ground of All Being, then we must first learn to speak their language. We must share their interests and their hobbies. We must listen to (at least some of) the same music and ingest similar media.

Dwelling in our high towers of Christian music and media will a) not be enjoyable for us and b) not convince many people that becoming a Christian is worth it.

The stance that Christianity is at odds with culture is outdated. Many people still hold this view, and they are not the ones welcoming outsiders into the doors of the church. Many people go too far in the opposite direction too, reducing the spinal column of Christianity to a blubbery pile of mush which can be pushed in whatever direction the culture pleases. This is also not historic Christianity.

True Christians will seek to undo the damage done by this divorce from popular culture. They will seek to participate in it in-depth, to a degree that is not sinful, but is also not keeping the masses at an arm’s length.

True Christians will not only absorb the media produced by culture, but contribute to it, subtly being an incarnational witness for Christ in a sea of darkness.

We will not stand back from the world, but will dive in hands-first, ready to get dirty, feed both the mouths hungering for food, and the minds hungering for truth. We will serve and love, even those who hate us.

We will learn the language of the world, using it to communicate truth to an ailing generation.

e

‘Sound of Metal’ Film Review

This image released by Amazon Studios shows Riz Ahmed in a scene from “Sound of Metal.” (Amazon Studios via AP)

As someone who recently tattooed HEAVY METAL across my toes, I knew that I was obligated to see Sound of Metal after hearing about it. Now, before you say ‘Ah, I don’t like heavy metal, I’ll skip it, WAIT!’ I would hate for you to miss out on this hidden, surprisingly quiet and sweet gem of a film because you judged the film by its poster.

Despite its name and most of the promotional material I’ve seen, the film is actually very little about heavy metal, or music at all (The opening scenes where they are playing music, I’d hardly classify as ‘metal,’ but that’s just my snobbery coming out).

The film centers on two young musicians, in love, trauma survivors of one breed or another (we only learn some of their backstory throughout the film, but this is less important than the humans their trauma produced, and how they overcame it). They are in a punk rock/experimental band and one evening, before a show, the drummer suddenly realizes he is losing his hearing.

It gets worse and rather than asking for help from his supportive girlfriend/bandmate, he slinks off to a doctor, eager to regain his hearing as quickly as possible.

“It’s irreversible,” he’s told by the doctor, so rather than learn to adjust to his new life as a hard of hearing person, he quickly dials up an audiologist who can pop some implants into his skull and get him back to normal.

The issue is, there is no back to normal. Without giving too much away, the tension in this film is painful to see. There are a number of directions you’ll feel pulled. Perhaps the most palpable is the tension between what we want vs. what we need.

The tension between how we thought life would go vs. how it is.

It asked me, personally, the question, are you able to accept the reality of things, or are you stubbornly raging against the nature of existence?

An existence which sometimes drops deafness on you out of the blue, despite the fact that your entire life is predicated on making music.

“I built this place on the idea that being deaf is not a bad thing,” explains a wizened mentor figure in the film, and it was at that moment I just about lost it. This sentiment was something I learned from my mom, an interpreter for deaf elementary students, who has taught me much about the deaf community.

All throughout the film, I literally had pain in my chest from the tension. It has a way of sucking you in and saying, What if this happened to you? What if you had to deal with the loss of a sense? Would you fight it, accept it, grow, etc.?

The audio mixer of the film deserves an award of their own, as there were moments in the film I had to remind myself that I’m not losing my hearing, praise God, and that when the credits roll, I’ll be able to hear normally again.

The fact that I felt so engrossed in the film, that I felt angst and pain in the lead character’s experience only highlights how well done the film was all-around, from the acting to the subtle but beautiful cinematography to the evolution of the character as he moves through the agonizing stages of grief over the loss of a sense. I finally exhaled when the credits rolled.

The final three shots made the entire film. They reflected closure which was building throughout the entire film. It was the perfect close.

Watching the film, I was reminded of the church service I had attended just a few hours before watching it. A woman in her early 30’s was sharing her testimony. However, by the end of her story, there was not a dry eye in the entire building.

She shared how she was diagnosed with breast cancer three years ago, and after surgeries and chemotherapies, it only had gotten worse. Now, this woman who is at the age where most people are just beginning their adult lives, was preparing for her last few months on this earth.

“I feel bigger than ever before,” she said. Rather than raging against her diagnosis and situation, she embraced it, relishing the hope of seeing Jesus face to face sooner than later. “There are a lot of things I thought I would do,” she stated, “like get married and get my PhD…”

The ‘hope’ she had in these earthly things had vanished, and they were exposed for the hollow counterfeits they are. Her hope expanded. No longer was she looking for ultimate satisfaction in these fleeting things, but she could focus on the Eternal.

Upon the people living in darkness a light has dawned.

Although the hope found in Sound of Metal was not quite as cosmic in its scope, it helped to expose a lot of the comfort we take for granted (like having all 5 senses) and showed that life goes on with or without our consent or enjoyment. It revealed many truths of life, not the least of which, we are far less in control than we’d like to admit.

The film is human: terrible in its pain, addiction, and suffering, but hopeful in its resilience. May we watch it and be reminded of our own weaknesses, turning instead to a hope bigger than ourselves, bigger than our senses, careers, and comfort.

e

Peasant in a Pyramid

I grew up hearing it.
You did too.

What was the purpose of the great pyramids in Egypt? Well, they were tombs for the pharaohs of course!

While teaching through ancient Egypt this past semester, I actually expanded my knowledge a little bit: In Egypt’s Old Kingdom, pharaohs were buried in pyramids. Then, for a stretch during the Middle Kingdom, they were buried scattered across the desert in unmarked locations to prevent grave robbing. Finally, in the New Kingdom—the period which most overlaps with the Biblical historical period—they were all buried in the Valley of Kings.

You’ve seen films like The Mummy, and as fantastic of a film as it is, it still leaves me asking the same question: What about the rest of the population?

The pharaohs and high priests were buried with gross troves of treasures and wealth. They would sail into the heavenly afterlife like clouds on butter. After all—the materials you were buried with were what you were stuck with for eternity.

But what about the peasants? What about the millions of Egyptians who died in their huts while surrounded by their family and couldn’t afford a pyramid, or even a tomb? Those lesser-known images of a human curled up in the hole their family dug behind their home are haunting. Don’t think too long about them or you’ll choke up like I did. What possessions sail them across the river from which there is no return? A few clay pots. Jars. A fetal-positioned body in a hole?

There was a similar photo to this one in my textbook in middle school. You probably saw it too and whirled right past it. Why? Because the majestic tombs of the pharaohs are way cooler to look at. They were covered in hieroglyphics, paintings, and decorated with gold and silver artifacts!

For some reason, while preparing to teach this to my middle schoolers a few weeks ago, I was struck with an image of what this would have been like. Take a moment and follow me there, five thousand years back.

Put yourself in the shadow of Khufu’s pyramid, beside a grieving widow who can’t afford anything more than a hole in the earth for her late husband. Her best clay pots are tossed into the hole next to his curled and decomposing remains—she’ll have to save up for more pots now. Obviously he wouldn’t receive the mummification treatment, so his sacred organs would remain inside his body, causing a questionable result in his afterlife judgment.

She wishes she could afford more ornate burial paraphernalia, but she prays to Anubis that he will still be allowed entrance across the River.

A few of his slave friends stand around the hole in the sand. There will be no parade for this man like there is when a pharaoh dies.

Maybe he had kids; maybe some died as infants and were given equally spartan burials.

Tears continue running down the cheeks of the poor man’s wife as the men begin heaving sand on top of the body and the measly jars. Who will provide for her now?

Logic would tell us that this was the experience of millions of Egyptians upon the death of their loved ones. Only the tippy-top one percent of them were afforded ornate burials, pyramids and tombs. Even a sarcophagus would have cost a fortune.

Granted, in such ancient times, the psychology of ‘the self’ was drastically different, so who knows how a slave would have seen themselves or their loved ones. I don’t know if that makes it more or less sad…

The point is, who decides that some humans deserve pyramids while others deserve holes in the ground alongside their family’s treasured clay jars? Why do some humans—equal partakers of the image of God—warrant parades and the wealth of a nation in their tomb, while others (the majority) are tossed into a hole?

One of my favorite names of God in the Bible comes from Hagar, the slave girl of Abraham. After being raped by her master and tossed aside, she is in the wilderness and has such an experience with God in Genesis 16 that she gives God the name, El-Roi, or, The One Who Sees. The idea is that, when her master treated her as an object, a means of having a son and being thrown into the wilderness, who saw her? YHWH, God, The One Who Sees Me.

This inherently contrasts the Sumerian/Egyptian view of the self as well. Her identity was not predicated on her place in society—a slavegirl—but on who saw her and was with her in her suffering. She didn’t perceive herself as a necessary cog in the wheel of society, functioning to support the lives of the wealthy and powerful (as would have been the common mentality at the time), but as an individual unto herself.

Who stands beside the grieving widow with her husband in a hole? El-Roi, the God who sees the grief of the slave and the travail of the overlooked.

The same God who saw the exiled slavegirl stands atop every hole in the earth where another peasant lies curled up, weeping. Or throwing a parade.

Who needs to be buried with gold when ‘The Lord is your great reward’? (Gen. 15:1)

Romans 4 even tells us that He calls the things that are not as though they were…who’s to say that every peasant doesn’t rest in a pyramid of their own in the eyes of this hierarchy-free El-Roi?

The God Who Sees the Unseen.

The God Who puts Peasants in Pyramids.

The thing which is harder to grasp is that, although our society is far more glossy and ‘advanced’ on the surface, we still put pharaohs in pyramids and peasants in holes in the ground, so to speak.

I was curious so I made the mistake of Googling what happens to the bodies of homeless people who die on the streets. This article provided some hope of funerary services being held for the homeless, where their shelter friends could come pay their respects, but then it served up these sentences:

Many are left unclaimed at the city morgue. After 30 days, they are cremated by a private funeral home and often buried outside the city limits. There is no funeral, no head stone, just a name written in the ledger book of a Maryland or Virginia cemetery.

It blows my mind that since the days of pyramids, we have not progressed as far as we’d like to admit. There are still people slipping through the fingers of society like water, their deaths witnessed only by El-Roi as their nameless corpses are conveyed into the cremator.

My takeaway from this is simple: May we, as image bearers of God, see one another. May we not let others slip down the stream of civilization unseen until they end up in a hole in the ground.

Last night I was buying pizza at midnight at a downtown shop and a homeless man came up and started chatting with me. His agenda was clear and I was tired and hungry, eager to get home and sleep. To hurry along his spiel, I pulled a $5 bill out of my pocket and handed it to him while walking away.

Looking back on it, I did the wrong thing. I’d still give him the money, but I’d also
talk to him.
Ask his name.
See him.
Treat him like a fellow bearer of the divine spark.

Without these things, we (the world’s elite) are no better than the pharaohs of old, setting up our massive pyramids so the world can remember us after we’re gone, while the peasants outside the city walls are digging holes.

e

You’re not as open-minded as you think

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Now, more than ever, we need a reminder on the benefits of maintaining an open mind. A few weeks ago, I landed on a definition of ‘open-minded’ which I think is actually fitting. As of now, I’m sticking with it:

A truly open-minded person enters every conversation
thinking that their belief or opinion might be changed,
that they may be wrong,
and that they might learn something new.

Sadly, there are so few people who are truly open-minded by this definition. Most people enter into theological, political, ethical, or scientific conversations with

Unchangeable beliefs and opinions,
which are definitely not wrong,
and nothing they learn could convince them otherwise.
In fact, new information presented causes them to double down
on the side they already take.

You may be reading this and thinking that you are, in fact, in the first category and you are indeed ‘open-minded’…Except, of course, if you talk about this category, that one, or these unquestionable beliefs…

In order to be truly open-minded, you need to accept the possibility that you’ve been wrong about everything and that it was actually your upbringing/experience which causes you to think this way.

So, might you be wrong?

Let me put some skin on it with a recent conversation. I began chatting with one of the billions of people on the internet and it was quickly apparent that she and I had VERY different backgrounds and worldviews. She was a liberal by every definition of the word: pro-abortion, sex with whomever you want, whenever you want (as long as there’s mutual consent), intersectional, critical theorist (not to be confused with anti-racist!), etc.

Somehow the idea of open-mindedness came up, and naturally, she thought she was the most open-minded person there was. How could she not be?? She was pro-everything! Everything flies! Everything is allowed!

This seems to be the new definition of open-mindedness: someone who, rather than hearing and weighing all sides, actually is just secular-minded and politically liberal. This is what I call emerging Neo-Liberalism.

Classical Liberalism is actually pretty cool—I’d consider myself a Classical Liberal. The idea was simply to hear all sides of every issue, being open to hearing them all and considering each one. Neo-Liberalism (what we tend to think of as ‘Liberal’ today) is moving away from this mindset more and more. Rather than weighing all ideas, they tend to only weigh ones which they agree with; those that seem the most progressive and least restrictive.

In other words, as long as something doesn’t seem to smell like traditional, Conservative Christian values, then it’s a go. This is the modern Liberal state.

One black professor said that in all his years of teaching in the university, he was never discriminated against once for his skin color, but repeatedly for his conservative values.

Historically, conservative people are the ones painted as the closed-minded sticklers who can’t accept things like school dances or having a beer (which is often accurate). In the past several decades however, a new form of Pharisee has emerged: the closed-minded Liberal. While Catholic nuns at the school social were once the morality police, there is a new type of ethics monitor: the ones who expect everyone else to speak and act exactly how they see fit.

Their goals are the same as those religious brothers and sisters—they see their way of living as the best practice for all of humanity and expect everyone else to see the same way. The difference is the paradigm on which they built those visions. For the fundamentalist conservatives, it looked like the moral and ethical teachings of the Bible, while for the Neo-Liberals, it emerged from a post-Christian state of secularism, freedom, human autonomy, and (let’s be honest) a hedonistic dance atop the grave of God.

Anything that stands in the way of my pleasure is a sin.

The once open-minded liberals who strove to weigh all ideas fairly became locked into a system of humanistic progress, and this one path became the new rulebook for speech and action.

All that is to say this: It doesn’t matter if you lean more Conservative or Liberal; religious or atheist; Democrat or Republican. No one is immune to the temptation to close our minds and become locked into a one-way-only epistemology.

Like my internet friend proved, simply being licentious and saying Everything is okay! If it feels good, do it! does not make you open-minded. She wouldn’t even hear my reasons for not thinking everything is permissible (like abortion). And that, my friends, is the definition of closed-minded.

Open-minded people aren’t just spineless pillows who agree with whomever they’re talking with. I hear plenty of ideas which I disagree with, and my mind isn’t changed. The difference between me now and me a few years ago is, now I actually weigh their arguments. I consider them. Sometimes my mind is changed, sometimes it’s not.

I want to see a world where opposing ideas are not only heard, but considered. A social media where rather than hatred being cultivated, ideas can be synthesized and improved upon. A room where Liberals and Conservatives alike walk in, ready to have their minds changed, rather than desperate to change the minds of their opponents.

Now, the real test of this post is this: Are you reading these words and thinking of all the other people you disagree with? Are you thinking, Oooh, Mary needs to read this. Then maybe she’d see the light!?

Or are you reading it and applying it to yourself? Are you thinking of conversations where YOU failed to hear/consider the other position?

Let’s humble ourselves, learn from others, and hopefully grow in the process.

e

R.I.P. Evangelicalism

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I hit a turning point today.

It’s nothing new that I’ve been sick of what we call the Prosperity Gospel; the belief that when you know Jesus, you will be blessed with riches, health, a great family, and more riches. This was initially a sect of Christianity in America and around the world, but in recent years it seems to have surged to the majority.

Major proponents of this gospel include Benny Hinn, Joel Osteen, and Steven Furtick (who has received criticism for his $7 million house). There are more, and if you want a full list, just visit the Preachers N Sneakers Instagram. You could make an argument that the creation of that Instagram account marked the moment of death for American Evangelicalism.

But after seeing the affairs of countless pastors, some of whom were brought back into their churches later, or rewarded with other pastoral positions, book deals, and the like,

After learning that a local church here in Colorado rewarded their volunteers with skinny, black, shredded jeans so they could fit the volunteer dress code,

After getting coffee with the pastor of said church and finding that he never went to college and didn’t know the definition of ‘reformed,’ among other basic theological concepts, despite leading a 9,000-person church,

After being turned down for multiple jobs in the church because I was single and didn’t fit their image of the American family-friendly dream,

After seeing a swarm of Evangelical leaders flock to the Trump White House and, rather than speaking truth to power and fighting for the voiceless, kiss the orange, rotund bottom of their morally deficit leader,

After seeing Christian leaders like Johns Piper or Macarthur launch movements against fellow Christians (Piper pretentious tweeting of “Farewell, Rob Bell;” or Macarthur’s Strange Fire Conference),

And after the general decline of Evangelical thought in regards to theology, cultural relevance, loving, logical answers to complex issues in favor of cool churches and money-making fame,

I have finally reached a breaking point: The point where I am unable to call myself an Evangelical Christian. These are more than enough nails to stick in her coffin’s lid.

Call it my own “95 Theses Moment” or whatever.

Originally, the term ‘Evangelical’ referred to 4 simple tenets (sometimes referred to as the Evangelical Quadrilateral), all of which I still agree with:

Authority and centrality of the BibleA conversion experienceEmphasis on the atoning work of ChristEmphasis on activism: making new disciples, feeding the poor, etc.

Most Christians in the world would agree with these points, which begs the question now: What is the use for the term Evangelical?

Language is always shifting and morphing as history and culture continue along.

Look at how the term ‘feminist’ has become weighed down with much more than just a desire for equality. The term now could refer to first- or second-wave feminism, which were fighting for equality and the right to vote (obvious and great things!). But with the dawning of the third- and fourth-waves, the movement became anti-man, pro-abortion, and so on.

All I’m saying is that one can no longer use the term ‘feminist’ without defining what they mean by it.

In the same way, the term ‘evangelical’ has been weighed down with plenty of unwanted baggage. I can no longer call myself an Evangelical without first having to clarify that I never voted for Trump and I’m not a fan of Jerry Falwell Jr.; that I do care about the poor and the environment, and that I’m not trying to burn homosexuals at the stake.

For this reason, I’m abandoning the term.

Christians have called themselves hundreds of things in the past 2,000 years, so clinging to a dying term and the system it represents should not be that hard to let go of. At some point in the past 400 years, American believers stopped calling themselves ‘Puritans,’ as their revulsion against the European Catholic church from which they were trying to purify themselves waned. We now look back on the Puritanical period and extract a lot of good and some bad from their moment.

In the future, I expect Christians will look back on the Evangelical movement and see a lot of good we did, as well as some of the toxicity which infiltrated our movement toward its dying end. Just as Martin Luther revolutionized the face of church as we know it, but went to his deathbed cursing Jews in full tomes of antisemitic rhetoric, we can chew the meat and spit out the bones of Evangelicalism.

Give the diehard Trumpfans the word; we can make a new one. We can initiate a movement which is even better at loving the outsiders and welcoming the Other. We can follow Jesus as He taught us, not how shame did. We can take the good from our Evangelical ancestry and carry it even further than they did.

Will it be a perfect system? No.
Will it likely face new struggles and run its course in time? Yes.

But that’s the entire purpose of fallen humans striving toward progress. Our generation carries it further before handing it off to the next, who hopefully gets closer than we did.

Clinging to a term (Evangelical) because it’s comfortable, because we can’t think of a better one, because it used to represent what we believe, is simply not the way forward.

e

Not brave enough to leave, not brave enough to stay.

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My first year out of high school.
February. 

I was living alone, renting out the second story of an old French woman’s house in Hyannisport, Cape Cod. I would eat cold breakfast cereal every morning at my tiny table set by the window looking into the Kennedy Compound. I abated the loneliness by reading books of adventurers who sailed south of Cape Horn and earned their golden left earring. 

The frosty dawns at that table sparked much of the following decade, which found me jet setting to Australia, Brazil, and dozens of other countries in search of it.

What was it? It’s a akin to what Noah Gundersen describes in his song “First Defeat,” when he whispers,

It’s not a person or place,
but a feeling you can’t get back

As I proofread my latest book Bad Timing, I find myself pining to go backward and rediscover those ancient days on Cape Cod which seem like an eternity ago. At that time I had only left the country once to go to Haiti. If I could describe to my past self all the places I’ve seen and the things I’ve done in the past decade, I’m sure he would be amazed. 

So why do I want to go back and unlive all this life?

Because at the same time, there are other voices whispering to me about what I really crave. One is telling me to charter a catamaran from Cancun and make it to my seventh continent. Another is telling me to find a lover, buy a home, and build a family. 

Which is the path that leads to happiness? Or meaning?
Or eudaimonia?

Essentially, there are two murmurs inside me: One says I’m not brave enough to leave, the other says I’m not brave enough to stay.

I’ve been in Colorado almost a record time for me—just over a year. I told a friend last night that staying in one place like this feels like life is passing me by out there, where I’m not experiencing it like others are. Like Jay Alvarrez or Louis Cole are doing it correctly and I screwed up somewhere along the lines a few years ago which landed me back here in Littleton. 

My biggest fear has always been to fulfill the statistic that most people end up living within a few miles of where they grew up. 

The other side of me also loves my family and idealizes the tribal mentality which allows families to function as a beautiful unit which solves a lot of problems in our culture: The grandparents watch their grandkids all day while the parents work, and the family tribe is a picture of function and wholeness. No daycare, no guilt about abandoning their kids 8 hours a day, no annual flights to see grandma and grandpa, no grandparents missing the lives of their grandkids. 

It’s almost like a unified family is how God designed us to work. 

So which is right? The motorcycle trip from Mexico down to Argentina, or the settling in the suburbs? Ecclesiastes tells me that 

There is a time for everything,
  and a season for every activity under the heavens

Maybe I’m still in the wandering phase and the time for settling will come. Maybe the right time will come to me slowly, the way a sun rises gradually into a new day. Maybe I’ll have to make the decision when responsibility forces me to.

For now though, I’m as single as the day I was born and dying for another trip. For one more backpack along the Chilean coastline. And then another El Camino after that. And then another…

Does it ever end?

Does being content ever get easier?

e

negative space

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I used to think that the quiet mornings when I woke up into the silence of a new day was wasted time. That the afternoons where I munched on cold cereal at home while reading comic books were just filler hours for the real highlights of my saga; my real life.

Now I see that they are all part of the same intricate tapestry which is, existence. It’s less of a series of good moments and bad ones—or exciting moments vs. dull ones—and more of a holistic artwork. A masterpiece.

It will have influences of Salvador Dali and heavy metal bands. Bright Eyes shaped my childhood, but cinema formed my 20’s. Regardless, the point is this: You’re alive and you’re the artist behind every minute you exist.

And it’s ok to have some of that negative space in the composition.

Paintings feel far too crowded without some open space to breathe. Those tranquil evenings alone reading a novel are not wasted, they are just negative space.

Moses, the Hebrew with an Egyptian name from the Bible, spent 80 years waiting for something significant to come of his life, and at the wrinkled old age of 80, he became a liberator of slaves. Two thirds of his life wasted….or was it? Or was it negative space on the canvas of a really good story?

Thinking of life through the lens of art and poetry and beauty seems more of a fitting perspective to me than thinking of it through the lens of a lot of American Christianity. You’ll find more truth in The Dead Poets Society than you will in most megachurches. You’ll feel more alive after The Brothers Bloom than you will after a $25 ‘worship night,’ where people sang flashy songs at you in very tight jeans.

I’d rather experience the One who promised me ‘life and life to the fullest’ in a way that feels like living, not pretending. I’d rather litter my life with episodes that look like mistakes and unravel into mystical and laughable yarns, than I would a safe life in the suburbs listening to safe pastors who are more concerned with my tithing habits than my life! My joie de vivre!

How did it get so twisted?

We go to concerts and movies to feel alive, but button up and straighten our faces when it’s time for church. When it’s time to meet with the God who made frogs and cliffs and sunsets, we’d better tuck our passions in and put them to sleep. None of that nonsense here.

Maybe I’m just cynical after being back in the suburbs for a year. The world is calling and I’ll probably answer it soon. And by ‘the world,’ I don’t mean the Pauline way of choosing between the Spirit and the World; I mean the rainforests of Brazil and midnight trains to Calcutta bazaars. I mean the crumbling castles of Scotland which still manage to stand on their foundations, and the Guatemalan taxis with their seatbelts cut out which rip across the cobblestone cities on shattered suspension systems.

Maybe this whole year has been a year of negative space; a season to recharge, get healthy, and write about what life was like when I was out there really living it.

A counselor, after getting to know me for a little while, once told me this while I was seeing him for help with my porn addiction: “Ethan, as long as you live in the suburbs you’ll be a porn addict.”

Think about it…

As long as you’re starving your soul for what it really needs—for the life Jesus was talking about—you’ll settle for little blips of dopamine rather than the deep satisfaction of a life well lived.

Some folks are satisfied to work their little jobs and go to their little (or in this case, big) churches and call it living. In my opinion, this is obedience and surrender, not to Jesus, but to capitalism. Think about it: The Apostle Paul met Jesus and suddenly couldn’t stay in the same country for more than a year or two.

On the other hand, I recently was talking to a high school student who was terrified God would call him to be a missionary overseas. He just wanted to work here in Colorado and live his best life here. I laughed at how nightmarish his dream sounded to me, and at his conception of a God who would call him to do what he hated.

I believe that our wired-in passions are one way God communicates to us and guides us. You don’t need to hear an audible voice or stumble upon a burning bush in order to hear from God; sometimes it’s as simple as asking a compound question:

What am I good at?
What do I love to do?
How do these contribute to the flourishing of the world?

I guess what I’m trying to say is this: figure out what that is and you’ll be happy and feel alive and flourish and make the lives of everyone around you better too. Make a list of things that make you feel alive:

Warm rainAirportsJumping into waterLow fog on the hillsHeavy metal shows

And maybe things that don’t, so you can narrow out what to avoid

SnowSuburbsWorking for someone else“Worship” as a genre of music

Figure out the intersection of all these things and I think you’ll be well on your way. It’s not about simply finding everything that makes you happy; that is small and won’t last. It’s about finding where your passions intersect with the hunger of the world. Find that out and you’ll be a very rich person indeed—and I don’t mean monetarily.

e

Life as a 29-Year-Old, Formerly-Good-Looking, Frustrated Virgin

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2011.

That was the last year I attended the wedding of someone older than me, and I go to tons of weddings. I’m drowning in an ocean of weddings, actually. I photograph them and am invited to them and have been in multiple bridal parties.

But they’re all for people younger than me. 

I watch these young punks exchange vows and kiss and have the most romantic pictures taken of them (sometimes by me) and then we dance and I’m legitimately happy for them and I’m not jealous, not at all.

I’ve reached the age where my seating placement is relegated to the table of the misfits and outcasts (read: other old single people), and I was invited to the wedding “because I was his youth pastor,” or “I mentored her through a tough time.” 

Then I get into one of my two cars (because I’m rich and single, ladies) and drive home alone and eat ice cream and definitely don’t cry.

Being single at 29-and-a-half would be all fine and dandy if tonight, when I came home, I hadn’t stubbed my toe and nearly punched a hole through my roommate who left candy wrappers all over the house. A puncturable offense? Not really. But my romantic desperation often transmogrifies into rage these days.

I was coming home late from the gym. I was actually there when they closed at midnight and we got booted.

And when I say ‘the gym,’ I really mean a stretched-tight sea of yoga pants, both on the TV screens and in person, wrapped around calves, thighs and butts which Every Man’s Battle told me to just ‘bounce my eyes away from,’ as if it were as easy as shooing away a fly. Throw in a fair amount of sports bras and sumo squats and you have my night at the gym. 

Or every night at the gym. 

Ever.

For the average married person, these tempting delights may be more easily swallowed knowing you have a warm bed and a partner to share it with waiting at home. 

One married friend once told me, “Let’s be real, Ethan. Everyone probably tells you that marriage won’t cure all your problems and desires, but the reality is, you go home to a cold twin-size mattress and a dog, while I go home to a loving wife who shares my bed. It doesn’t mean my life, or our marriage is perfect, but I acknowledge that there is a substantial difference there.”

So yah. 

Suck it, everyone who tried to tell me that marriage won’t make me feel better.

And if tonight happened but I was younger, I would be more optimistic. Each ticking of the clock’s hand wouldn’t cut me quite so deeply as I march on toward a lonely cemetery plot. I wouldn’t feel like every cute girl I failed to approach was the one who got away, while my hair grays and my muscles atrophy into dust. 

That happened tonight at the gym, actually. She was wearing Chucks like mine, so I figured I had a conversation opener, but then we kept missing each other. She headed for the cardio area as I went to the free weights, then we’d swap. There was never the prime opportunity to strike. 

I held the door for Yoga-Pants-and-Sports-Bra as we exited, asking her if she had a good workout. 

“Yes, what about you?” replied YPaSB without breaking her stride.

“Good.” I hung my head, realizing she wasn’t keen on chatting, and moped my way to my beautiful convertible Mustang which, evidently, I would NOT be sharing with Yoga-Pants-and-Sports-Bra tonight.

It’s not fun having your body shrivel up while your soul thirsts for intimacy. 

It’s not fun having people tell me that I’ll find the right one, or, just stop trying so hard to find her and that’s when God will bring her into your—(I couldn’t finish the sentence without physically gagging).

I also get told (surprisingly? unsurprisingly?) to just go out and have sex already! I mean, sure, I’ve waited this long; may as well just throw it all away now.

It’s also not fun to be told, you’re not THAT old. Because after 29 years of swings and misses, it gets a little tiring. Realistically, maybe 11 years of really trying, but still. If you can’t succeed at a task after more than a decade, it may be time to reevaluate your methods. 

Nevertheless, I remain optimistic. 

Or at least, that’s what I tell myself in the mirror every day as I examine my shell of a torso which used to have a higher quantity of abs and a lower quantity of gray hairs. 

“Get optimistic,” I grunt to my reflection through gritted teeth and fierce, saggy old eyes. “Get out there and kill it! You look good. You can do it. Don’t you cry on me now.”

Some days it works.

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