Ethan Renoe's Blog, page 14
October 18, 2020
You’ll never get over the ones you loved.
A while ago, I wrote a post called “How To Get Over Anyone.” I believed all the advice I wrote in it, and I still think it can be helpful. I think it will take away some of the pain but not all of it.
Unlike scars on the skin, I don’t think the pain ever really goes away when you really love someone.
There’s this idea that the pain goes away over the years, the further you get from one heartbreak or another, but I have not found that to be true. Looking back over my 29 years, I can pinpoint a few loves which really shaped and shook me. One was in high school. I used to think that I’d meet someone else and our love would eclipse that of my high school romance.
What I’ve found instead is that I carry the strangeness of the flame from that first tumble down the hill of love into every one that follows it. Each flame burns a slightly different color, and when I finally meet the woman I’ll spend the rest of my life with, we won’t be striking flint together to make a new flame; we will be joining the ones we’ve been carrying through the years.
You don’t get to start over.
Essentially, what I’ve learned is this: You never really get over anyone.
If you really love someone—and I mean the type of love which is so beautiful it hurts, like slicing your souls open and pressing the juicy wounds together—then you will never really move on.
You can deal with that experience in a healthy way, of course. You can function properly and move forward. You can even pretend it doesn’t affect you anymore, but for the rest of your days, those previous flames will shape who you date and who you become.
I wish I could escape it, but even now, even 13 years later, I can’t help but to nostalgically long for the summer days on Cape Cod when we split grass in half and swung for the clouds on the swingset.
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to communicate the sheer depth of the day Claudia and I got stuck in the rain in Guatemala—not because it’s shameful or bad, but because the breadth of what a human being is able to feel was pushed to its limits.
Looking back, I can point to three, maybe four relationships which literally changed who I have become. Whether it was my interests which shifted over that time—because of her—or me realizing what I do or don’t want; what I do or don’t like to do, where I want my life to go, and so on, I was not the same person after spending time with her.
So in that sense, I’ll never be over them, because they altered my life. They may have changed the trajectory of my life by a single degree, but even such a minute alteration would take me to a vastly different place decades later.
We’ll never know who we would have been or where we’d end up if we hadn’t gone out with ____ …or if we had gone out with ____.
You may marry someone else and authentically love them, but you’ll never be over your former loves.
They’ll trickle their way into your future like a love-shaped shadow, always calling out in voices which now sound like distant echoes,
“Can you still hear me over the sound of the passing decades?“
They’ll pull you back like the string of a bow and fire you, the arrow, at whatever target their lovesick hearts desire.
You can’t help it.
Either you surrender to their marksmanship
or you weren’t really in love.
To love is to give it all, because to hold any of yourself back is to act. And if you’re acting, you’re in anything but love.
There is no 90% in love.
No, you don’t get over those you really loved.
You carry them with you.
e
September 17, 2020
Each of us is so freaking full of life
I was on a date with a girl who grew up in Florida and now lives in California.
She had never seen snow in her life.
We got dinner and while we ate, Colorado surprised us with a fluke September blizzard after a 90 degree day. As we drove from the restaurant, she asked me to pull over so she could throw her first snowball. I obliged and watched as she danced out of the passenger seat and over to the nearest bank of 6-inch powder.
At the ripe old age of 25, she balled it up and flung her first snowball at a stop sign.
I enjoyed sitting there watching this moment. It was a dizzying display of wonder which I realized had been lacking from my life recently.
She climbed back into the car, shivering but ecstatic.
“Look at this!” she nearly screamed in my face, waving her arms all around.
“Look at what?” I asked.
“This! Life! It’s in each of us and it’s wonderful!”
For some reason, the way she worded that sentence had been adhered to the inside of my mind the past week and I can’t shake it.
Life.
It’s inside each of us.
I began thinking of all humans as bottles filled to the brim with frothy rich milk. The thing is, there is no half-filled. You can’t pour out some of your life and keep some for later. You’re either filled with life or you’re dead.
Maybe a better analogy is a light bulb. It’s either singing its loud song of light which fills entire rooms, or it’s off.
Some people use the analogy of flickering flames. “His light was flickering out,” they may say about an old man.
I don’t see it this way.
There are two degrees of life: alive or dead.
“Everyone who is among the living has hope!” the writer of Ecclesiastes proclaims. “A sick dog is better than a dead lion.”
Why play dead in the land of the living?
Here’s an exercise I’ve been working through the past week: What activities move us toward death and which toward life? (Hint: if you’re sweating, you’re probably doing something right) Which activities push us toward isolation and stagnation, and which ones toward community and liveliness? In some ways, is absorbing gratuitous Netflix, video games, and porn practicing for death?
As Wendell Berry said, we should instead practice resurrection.
I witnessed firsthand the effects of life the other night when my friends and I went swing dancing. We walked into the dimly lit bar as the folksy band rattled off their timeless melodies from the stage. Before the band were a hundred people smiling and moving their bodies.
Here’s the thing: No one is ever sad on the dance floor.
You take the life inside of you and turn it into awkward gyrations of your limbs and feet and before you know it, you’re living. You’re dancing. Sad people don’t dance.
You inhale the sweaty air of the dance floor, and can’t help but smile.
This is life.
This is what happens to our little bottles of skin when a joyful God breathes life into our bodies and says “go!” Why would God invent music and bodies if He didn’t have dancing in mind?
Before my poetry teacher was killed by cancer, we used to sit in poetry club and hiccup out our little poems—life converted into language. Not unlike this piece.
What is life?
It’s what is in you. Sometimes it comes out in dancing, sometimes it’s a four stanza poem which shreds your heart. It has also been witnessed in kisses, hugs, rope swings, and a perfectly brewed cup of coffee.
On her walk today, my dog did some phenomenal, tail-wagging sniffing. It was a serious investigation into all the life going on in the world around her.
For others, life comes out of them and into a model train in their basement or a film they direct about time moving backward.
See how the process of creation is an outpouring of life?
See how the restriction of creativity could be an act of death?
Creativity isn’t optional.
(neither is dancing)
We have seen people groups throughout history who were squeezed hard, and what came out was works of art/works of life which transcend the molecules which allow for their existence.
We hear the slave spirituals which were lifted up from the chain gangs in a not-too-distant America, and we too want to go down to the river to pray.
We hear the songs of Zion being sung in a foreign land and like the author of Psalm 137, we weep within the walls of Babylon. “After all,” asked Rich Mullins before a car accident took him away from us, “where have we ever been that was not a foreign land?”
We see communities today squeezed by uneven measures and forced into unjust restrictions (some on their throats, others around their wrists, other restrictions are more invisible), and what do they produce? Artists who elevate the human experience, pushing the limits of the life within us to see how far it can go; how much stretching it can take.
Kendrick Lamar rhythmically pieces together his royal African family before the weight of oppression crushed them, while Nahko Bear sings about his Native American ancestors who opened their own wrists to escape the rule of the white man.
Life and death are not two sides of the same coin.
I have known three people this year who heard the sweet song of life and decided it wasn’t for them. They decided to lower their light switch; emptying their own bottle.
They got tired of singing the song inside of them.
They believed that the absence of life is better than a hard life and the darkness won.
Death is not a poem, it’s a lie.
It’s the opposite of life, which is art, which is beauty, which is all things that grow and are cultivated. Death is not a god to be danced around or joked about, but a termination of all progress.
“I am the life,” said Jesus in a moment when He was not joking.
What the heck does that mean?
It means He’s not kidding when He tells us what to do. He knows how to live and flourish. He knows what is best for us, will make us feel alive.
You want to create a culture of life?
Be creative.
Do beautiful things to one another.
Lift up the bonds of oppression and the yoke of slavery.
Treat others as you would like to be treated.
Fan the flames of life inside one another so each one of you may come roaring to life.
Then pull your life inside out so others can enjoy it too.
Then you dance around when you throw your first snowball at a stop sign.
Then your life multiplies as your life is shared with others.
Why do we go to church? Why do we hug and have book clubs and sing together? Because you’re a bottle full of life which is dying to get out of you. Will you let it? Will you let this little flicker of life—the only hope for the world—move your body, sing your songs, and unite mankind?
Or will you continue to dwell prematurely inside your death?
Will your life, the frothy milk bottled inside your bones, rot before TV screens and video game controllers?
Will you tear others down and divide communities with your words and actions?
May we be people who pop the lid off the life inside of us.
May we spill it recklessly until at last, when the grave swallows us whole and the lights turn out, we can rest giddy, knowing we didn’t let one ounce of our precious, PRECIOUS life go to waste.
e
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September 13, 2020
My dating book is HERE!
For those of you who have missed it, my new book, Bad Timing, came out on Saturday and it hit #1 (and #4…the paperback and ebook editions) in its category! I couldn’t be happier/more grateful/more wowed by all of you and your support! Now I can say I’ve had TWO books sit atop that #1 best-seller spot…
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Don’t just take my word for it though, read what people have said about it:
"UGH i am enjoying this immensely. It made me laugh out loud."
-Emily
"Really good. Not much to say, just that I really enjoyed it."
-Alysson
"I'm crying right now."
-Josie
"I can’t stop reading this book. It’s poetic, thoughtful, moving, and so funny. It brought to mind my own dating memories and stirred some old feelings. I appreciated how it caused me to evaluate my own similar dating mistakes and what I could learn from them. This is not just a compilation of some amusing and sometimes painful dating stories. They’re entertaining but also contain depth. It’s the perfect mixture of humor, practical wisdom, vulnerability, and honesty. I’ll recommend this to my single Christian friends because more than ever we want to know we’re not alone. Sometimes what we need the most is to delve into our past experiences in order to find healing, understanding, and growth like this book unfolds so beautifully."
-Unknown Amazon Reviewer
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And here’s the synopsis from the back of the book:
Many modern dating books treat relationships like a formula or checklist: Follow these rules and you’ll soar to marital bliss. Bad Timing takes a different approach. Pulling from over a decade of dating experiences, Ethan paints a raw portrait of today’s dating scene. This book is not a how-to, nor is it simply a memoir of hilarious and heartbreaking love stories. It’s the recap of a decade spent chasing after romance and failing miserably; sometimes it’s funny, often it’s tragic, but it’s always honest. Embedded in every reflection is at least one lesson learned by hard-won personal experience. The wisdom is less ‘preach’ and more ‘don’t make the same dumb mistakes I did.’ Whether you‘re looking for help with your dating life, relatable bittersweet tales, or simply some authentic entertainment, you’ll find it here.
Thanks again for the support and make sure to grab your copy here!
e
July 14, 2020
Why I’ll Never Buy a Diamond
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Last night one of my friends announced that he was about to drop between 3 and 4 grand on an engagement ring for his fiancee. I bit my tongue for the first few minutes as he discussed it with my other friends, but eventually the SJW-side of me won out and I couldn’t hold back my thoughts any longer.
Let’s start with the basics of why it’s insane to spend that much money on an item that fits in your nostril:
-It’s smaller than your nose.
-You could lose it SO easily.
-What does something so small ADD to your life?
-You could have exponentially more fun/rich experiences for that much dinero.
-Read these all again because it really boggles my mind.
“Oh, but Ethan!” you may be protesting. “How will you show your wife how much she is WORTH to you if you don’t go all-out on a ring??”
Oh, I don’t know…loyalty, fidelity, time spent together, shared experiences, children, physical intimacy, encouragement toward spiritual maturation……
I knew a girl in college who told me that she wouldn’t marry someone without a diamond on her finger. As in, the center of her marriage was predicated on said small artifact which she could accidentally snort into her sinuses. THAT multi-thousand dollar artifact.
I hope that my wife-to-be will not be so myopic in her view of love and romance, and will see the value of a two-month trip to Asia which would cost about the same as a ring.
Here’s the wild thing: If every molecule inside you is revolting against the idea of a diamond-free wedding, get this. Diamonds were not so closely associated with marriage until a brilliant advertisement from De Beers Diamonds in 1947 which read “Diamonds are forever.”
NINETEEN FORTY-SEVEN!!
That’s when diamonds became associated with longevity and romance.
This is not some ancient tradition I am upending and protesting here. It is a practice younger than my my grandparents, and a reflection of Western capitalism conflating THINGS with love, meaning and care. Are you another victim of brilliant advertising?
I’m an incredibly romantic guy, and my boycott of the diamond trade is not ‘anti-romance’ in the least. In fact, I haven’t even gotten to my main point yet.
The conflict diamond trade
You knew I was going here, so let me lay it out.
Many countries have gotten better at ethically sourcing their diamonds, but many have not. Some have such abysmal accountability for the sources of their diamonds that Westerners cannot get an accurate estimate. It is estimated that at its peak in the 1990’s, 10-15% of diamonds were conflict diamonds. That means they used slaves to unearth the stones, OR that the funds from the purchase went to violent militias who regularly chopped up enemy tribes, amputated children’s limbs, and dominated neighboring states.
That number can be misleading, as it makes it seem as if 85-90% of diamonds are just fine and dandy. In reality, the stones coming from violent countries may fund the majority of that country’s economy, meaning that there is an outsized effect from the purchase of a blood diamond.
“Wait, Ethan! Why can’t I just buy a verified diamond that didn’t come from the conflict trade?”
Good question. Presently, only 28% of retailers can verify with 100% certainty that their diamonds are conflict-free.
28%.
For the non-math majors, that means that 72% of diamonds CANNOT be verified to not support violence in Africa. 72% of retailers CANNOT verify that your pretty diamond didn’t get a little boy’s legs chopped off. Or put a gun in his hands. There has been an estimated 3.7 million lives lost as an indirect result of these diamond sales in the past century. It wasn’t until 2000 that the Kimberly Certification (which still has a plethora of issues with corruption and transparency) came into existence, which traces the origins of the stones. 20 years to reverse over 100 years of violent diamond trade.
No wonder the number of verified diamonds is so low.
On top of that, diamond-rich countries have seen a growing disparity between the wealthy and the poor, who are the ones mining the stones. In other words, the diamond trade perpetuates an economy built to keep the poor poor, and the wealthy wealthy. Westerners’ demand for diamonds ensures that this cycle continues.
“Yah, well, the way I see it,” said my friend who is about to make the purchase, “if I don’t buy a diamond, that won’t make a difference in the blood diamond trade. I won’t stop it by not buying one.” And he’s right; he won’t stop it alone.
But I believe that someday we will all be accountable for what we did with what we were given. Jesus seems to have said something similar, several times….
So with $3k of my own, I can decide if I want it to support an industry that may imprison children and force them to work in mines, or if I don’t. I can decide to put that money toward things which are not detrimental to the human race, spending falsely inflated prices (a century ago, De Beers also limited the number of diamonds excavated per year in order to keep prices high) on something infinitesimally tiny.
Think about it this way: If you’re a Democrat, would you give $5 to Trump’s campaign? Or on the other side, would you contribute $5 to Biden? Probably not. Why? Because we can vote with our money. Your money shows where your values are. Your five dollar bill won’t make or break the election, but you’re showing your support with your wallet.
By funding an industry which is only 28% verified NOT to continue violent massacres, you perpetuate the demand for diamonds to be sold and bought at inordinate prices. Which is more valuable to you: you (or your spouse) having a shiny little marble on your finger, or the lives of millions of human beings in Africa?
I can’t help but wonder if it is the geographic distance which makes this argument seem so ethereal. It doesn’t affect MY life, so why do I care? People stopped shopping at Target by the thousands when the store came out in support of the LGBTQ+ community. Why? Because we can SEE that with our own eyes, in our own culture. It’s harder to see the tribal villages which have been decimated in Africa thanks to the diamond trade. It’s so far away…
Regardless of whether or not my boycott shuts down the diamond trade, I will someday be able to tell God that I didn’t support it. That I tried to be responsible for where MY money went, and thousands of my dollars did NOT go to this industry. Who knows? Maybe you read this and share it, and together we create a community of people standing against violence as a result of the diamond trade. And maybe THAT can make an impact.
Does this mean I don’t care about my spouse? Does it mean I don’t see her as worthy of an expensive ring? Of course not, don’t be silly. But buying her a diamond ring is not how I will show that to her.
e
June 23, 2020
Don’t Forget About Life
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The well is deep, where can I get living water?
-John 4, Silent Planet translation
If you’ve read anything I’ve ever written in the past five years, you know that I’m painfully aware of my own mortality and the imminent death which is coming for each of us. I’ve ruminated on its finality and the ubiquity of it.
Even this morning, I was catching up on the newest releases in heavy metal and found this song released by The Ghost Inside which is a reflection on the death of one of their friends to a bus crash. As you’ll see, the song even causes metal legend Jake Luhrs to weep. There was an accident while the band was on tour and ten people on the bus were injured and one was killed.
The response, according to the band, is not to focus on death and to mourn for the rest of their lives, but to focus on what’s left; too live out the rest of their lives with the life that’s inside them rather than focusing on the death that awaits them:
I don’t have it in me to sing of defeat
Triumph over tragedy
The beat goes on
Where in the gospels do we see Jesus concentrate on death? He encounters it a number of times, but what does He do whenever He does? He weeps (John 11), He retreats to a quiet place to be alone (Matt. 14), or He belittles it by saying they’re just asleep (John 11, Luke 8).
Jesus seems much more focused on life than death.
Maybe we should be too.
In yet another song (fronted by Jake Luhrs this time), he yells,
While mourning the loss, I am forced to celebrate
Celebrate new life,
celebrate new life
Do we often focus our thoughts, and especially our spirituality, on death rather than life? Do we tend toward thinking about what awaits us after the grave and therefore relegate most of our religious action to then?
This manifests itself in many ways, some of which are incredibly important. For one, if your Christianity is purely relegated to What happens after we die, then you will most likely be incredibly ineffective in this life.
Jesus gives plenty of parables and teachings on how we need to use our time. He talks about the parable of the talents (or minas), in which we are responsible to use well what we have been given. In the afterlife? NO! In this life! He teaches that the one who c be trusted with little can be trusted with much. He talks about clothing the naked, feeding the hungry, looking after widows, orphans and prisoners. These are not after-death things. These are things that we can only do while alive.
Too often, our faith floats above us in some vague spiritual cloud at which we will someday arrive, and there is little if any trickle down into our day-to-day lives.
Jesus confronted this way of living simply by what He did. In theology, it’s called the incarnational work of Christ. He didn’t just sit up in heaven and plop down a scroll of instructions on how to join Him up there. Jesus seems far less interested in merely telling us what to do, and more focused on joining us, being with us. His name, Emmanuel, means God with us.
In other words, Jesus wants us to—like Him—use our bodies (while they’re alive) to do religious things. What does that mean? Well James clearly tells us that the religion he chose was to look after widows and orphans. Isaiah adds breaking the chains of injustice, setting the oppressed free, sharing our bread, and inviting the homeless into our homes. None of these things can be done after you die.
You can always tell which Christians are only focused on a religion that begins after death—they’re the ones arguing about unprovable theories and theologies on Facebook. The ones who really know Jesus tend to be the ones hanging with the homeless, giving up their money and possessions, and fighting for justice (without posting about it…).
The Bible tends to put far more emphasis on what we do before we die than on what happens afterward. In fact, the entire idea of an afterlife doesn’t appear until the prophetic books which are over halfway through the book. In other words, God has an incredible focus on life—on what we do with ours, on how we live, etc.
Have you been like me: too focused on death to be effective with your life?
Who can praise God from the grave?
The very beginning of the Bible paints this beautiful picture of God calling the world to life. In Genesis 1:2, the Spirit of God is hovering over the chaotic waters. The word for ‘hovering’ evokes an image of a mother bird flapping her wings over her young in the nest, calling to them, “Rise! Come to life! Take flight!”
This is the second thing we ever see God do in the Bible (the first is creating). God calls us to rise up and live. He hovers over the chaotic waters which our lives often feel like, calling out to them, telling us not to wait, but to ascend.
It’s important to have a memento mori attitude in most things we do, but to fixate on our coming death and the life we experience afterward can distract us from the very real life before us now. Death is real, and sadly, we are reminded of that constantly. Mourning and grief are necessary processes.
However, to dwell on them and think of nothing else is not only un-Christlike, but it can distract us from using our lives in the most effective ways possible. Is this not what a demonic enemy would want—for us to waste our lives or whittle them away in fear and philosophy rather than being effective and enjoying our life?
Jesus did not come and die simply so we could pontificate about death and the existence which follows. He came so we could have life and life to the fullest, and this tends to begin the very moment people meet Him in the Bible.
Live well now; there is no later.
e
May 19, 2020
At Odds With Existing
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I am at odds with existence.
It seems to come so easily to everyone else. She lands the internship and he gets the scholarship. Her parents bought her a new BMW for her sixteenth birthday. I got community college and go through grad school one class at a time so I can afford it without loans. And saved up to buy a 1991 Subaru.
She settled down with the man of her dreams at 22 while I prep for my third Bumble date of the week at 28-and-a-half.
Existence comes so easy to some folks.
It’s almost like they don’t realize that they exist. They seem unaware that there was a time when they didn’t exist, and there will be a time that they won’t. Do they wonder how much their life will have mattered when held up like a strip of film negatives to the awful brightness of history? The timeline of humanity pauses for no pedestrian to gather up their worth and display it to the world.
That’s what plagues me.
A few months ago I lay on a motel bed beside a friend and confessed that I fear dying without having accomplished anything that will be remembered in 100 years.
Much less 1,000.
Much less 1,000,000.
I feared descending into the deep void of vanity. She said she was happy to just love the people in her life and wanted them to know she loved them before she went on. I wished it was that simple for me, but again, I seem to be at odds with existence. There must be more to this life thing, right? What good do the plebes of history serve? Who remembers Plato’s other students besides Aristotle?
I told her I feared dying as a forgettable nobody and having the world move on as if I’d never been here. Like there is this great big something out there that needs to be done by me, and if it’s not, then I’ll have died in a meaningless oblivion. My significance suffocates with me beneath six feet of dirt. It’s a terrifying thing to stand on the edge of the abyss; there’s a thin shelf of existence holding us over eternity and everyone else seems to calmly go about their life atop this feeble board.
I walk my dog and throw the ball for her—a meaningless act because she has cancer. Soon she will not exist and all the effort poured into her will have come to naught.
I can’t sit still anymore.
I always need to be producing.
You’ll tell me it’s because I’m a 3 on the Enneagram and I’ll tell you no, it’s because nothingness is inches away.
Genesis 16 comes to mind, where Abraham’s servant girl (whom he raped) and her son are sent out from him into the wilderness. God meets her there, where He often meets us, the nobodies of the world, and basically just lets her know that He still sees her. She calls Him “The God Who Sees Me,” and it’s one of my favorite names for God in the Bible.
Why?
Because in all of our obsession with performance these days, it’s nice to know that we have an audience. However, this audience does not seem to be as concerned with how well we executed the dance steps as He is with how well we are existing.
“Ooooh, you’re existing real good today,” God says, delighted.
Is it that simple? Is that all we need to do in order to please God? I’m wrestling with that because it seems like there should be more; like you should have to get into the right college or give the right amount to charity.
Brennan Manning believed that in heaven, God only asks us one questions to get in: “Did you believe that I loved you?”
It’s hard to justify my existence without pouring out effort into doing so; without leaving a sort of tangible mark on the generation. Perhaps the trap through which my mind keeps falling is that fame (or, number of people influenced) is equivalent to success, worth, and a verified existence. Maybe my life will get a blue check mark next to it. Maybe it’s why I strive to stay in ridiculously good shape, or pump out an obscene amount of writing, hoping to impact that many more people.
Because a life passed through silently and unobserved is wasted…right?
But then I ask myself: How many celebrities from the previous generation can I name? Or the one before that? Or before that? (Ironically they’re mostly authors, so maybe I have a decent shot after all)
It’s a lie to think that existence—or its value—is predicated on accomplishments. Perhaps God really is alright with us taking daily time to be okay with being.
Are you able to just…be?
Can you be alright with being?
One thing I learned last year, which I’m still opening up like a piñata, is that Jesus doesn’t just trade our sin for His righteousness.
He doesn’t just take our bad stuff and give us good stuff.
He doesn’t just dwell in the realm of ethics, where we often sequester Him.
He also takes our meaninglessness and gives it meaning.
He takes a being which once did not exist and gives us existence.
It’s nuts.
It’s crazy to think that sin doesn’t just touch the judicial system of ‘breaking the law’ but the very nature of existence and meaning, such that to dwell with sin is to dwell among the land of the meaningless. It’s like holding onto a fistful of chaff or continually performing inane actions hoping for a different result. Isn’t that the definition of insanity?
Is sin insanity?
In offering us freedom from sin, Jesus offers us meaning. Sanity. Not because of things we have done, but because we are found in the One who matters. We are seen by the only One whose gaze is worth a damn. And that’s an audience I’m happy to hold captive. What do I need to do to keep His attention?
Exist.
e
May 16, 2020
29 Personal Questions for Ethan
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A reader wanted to ask me the following questions about writing, travel, motivation, and more, so I decided to set time aside and give them thoughtful answers. As I was going through, I thought they would be fun enough to publish as a blog (or Myspace) post! Enjoy!
1. Why did you start your blog?
My friend gave me ethanrenoe.com for my 18th birthday and it has been a slow evolution to what it is today. I began writing seriously on it in 2012, whenever I felt inspired. I began writing weekly after the viral video in 2015, and now I probably publish between 3-7 posts per week. (Lately I’ve been slacking because of the upcoming book though)
2. What motivates you to keep posting?
Being a 4w3 on the Enneagram. Also being an external processor and having an undying urge to create things. It’s more of an addiction than an accomplishment.
3. Did you have any goals or expectations for where your blog would lead you?
Wealth, fame, book deals. Basically the goal of every megachurch pastor in America.
4. How long did it take to establish your brand?
I don’t have a brand? I’m too diverse and ADD in my interests.
5. How much time do you spend on your blog?
1-2 hours a day
6. Are you happy with WordPress or would you recommend a different host?
Yes, definitely.
7. Do you have a planned schedule for your blog?
Nope.
8. Have you ever regretted posting something?
Nope. But I regret how dumb some people’ interpretations can be.
9. How has sharing your thoughts via an online platform changed your life?
I’m $38 richer. Also the meaningful emails people send about how my writing has helped them in some way, even though I have no idea who they are. Those make it worth it.
10. How has your blog impacted your relationships? Friendships?
Only once when I was like 22 I published something I shouldn’t have about this girl’s dad being mean to her and he found it. It was meant to highlight the love of the Father, and I didn’t use names or anything, but he could still tell. Also, some women don’t want to date me after reading one blog post or another (Whether it’s my beliefs on sex or homosexuality, being famous, or having dated so many women in the past…).
11. Has blogging made you a better communicator?
Yes, practice makes perfect. There is no substitute.
12. Do you find blogging to be a good way to connect with others or is it isolating?
Yes! So much connection. That’s also why I usually write in coffee shops when they’re open.
13. How has posting about difficult topics and personal sin helped you grow as a person?
The stakes are higher, I would say, for messing up in the future. Just by being a hypocrite. But it also seems to connect with other people who–coincidentally–are also sinful.
14. What is your favorite part of blogging?
Being creative with it. For instance, with my most recent 6-part series, I wanted to communicate real thoughts I’ve been having about the world via fiction rather than my usual nonfictional prose. The best part about my blog title be my name is that I don’t have any restraints or limitations on themes or topics–it’s just whatever Ethan Renoe wants to write.
15. What is the most difficult part of blogging for you?
Reining in the oversharing, which is my tendency. Also taking harsh criticism or mean comments–I’m probably more sensitive than I let off. Also just the frustrating people who think they know more than me because they “read a Francis Chan book on this topic once.” lol
16. Is there anything about blogging you hate?
Not really.
17. What kind of responses do you get on your posts?
All kinds, depends on the topic. I’d say the majority is encouraging and the rest is split 50/50 between polite disagreements and just plain dumb critiques or wild claims (Especially if I so much as mention the T-R-U-M-P word).
18. How do you deal with negative feedback?
Ignore it and move on. My dad said “There is so much crap on the internet and it’s easy to throw.” I only reply if I know them personally, and want to maintain that relationship. Then I do so OVERLY loving and gently.
19. Has blogging opened any opportunities for you as far as experiences?
Yes, plenty of speaking opportunities and cool invitations! Plus contributing to magazines and other publications.
20. What are some things you wished you knew about blogging before you started?
Well, if I had had my site set up properly before the viral video, I’d be a millionaire right now. I had NO advertisement for my book (only had one at the time) and no means of inbound marketing or advertisement. I’ve learned a lot since then, both technical things, like how to have the site set up for the best possible returns, and just behavioral things, like posting more often than not, how to respond to mean comments (just don’t), etc. I’ve begun doing consulting for this sort of thing now…
April 29, 2020
The Depths, Part 6: The End
As my mind descended back into the reality of my body, I realized that what I had seen was not real…or was it?
Was it the most real thing I had encountered in all my life?
Just as the coming of Captain Williams’ ship had expanded my knowledge of what was possible in this physical world, my experience in the water had blown away any notion of what I knew about the invisible world, that horizon across which there is no return. I had crossed it and returned. I had come within a mere whisper of reality itself.
What had I known before? What did I think I knew?
I now realized I knew nothing but fear and my tribe’s small settlement on the edge of the world. The water had brought me closer to life than any experience I had on this side of the abyss. I smiled at the irony and my father rushed down to my side, yelling a word he had called me all my life: my name. But it wasn’t really my name. I knew that now. I knew I wouldn’t be at home any longer until I was once more engulfed by the chaos and sunk inside her frigid womb.
Not even my woman’s arms would be enough for me after this taste of eternity. Yet as my mind reeled from darkness into the light, I knew I would spend several more decades with her before permanently joining the dark waters.
I slowly pushed my body up into a sitting position and looked around me.
“One of the men had to dive in after you,” said my father. “He saved your life.” My father pointed to one of the men circled around me, and sure enough, he was dripping wet in his brilliant white clothes.
Just yesterday I would have marveled at the bravery of a man who could dive into the waters, fearless. Now, however, I envied him. For a moment I felt the draw to heave the rail again and jump back into the water myself.
Finally, total coherence brought me to myself and I looked at my father. The only words I could say were, “My woman!”
He put his hand on my shoulder and delivered the news: “You cannot go back, my son.”
The words didn’t register inside my head for a moment, then I felt the same sinking feeling in my stomach again. “What? But father—”
“You will endanger our entire tribe if you go back,” he said gently.
“But how?” I asked, bewildered. I felt unforced tears roll down my cheeks before I even realized I was crying.
“I don’t know exactly,” said my father, “but Captain William and his men explained that there are very small dangers that they carry. So small we cannot see them. They will make you sick and you will carry these dangers to our people.”
I took in the news, even though it didn’t make sense to me. How could something be a threat to me if I couldn’t even see it? I began shaking my head violently, “No father! I must go back to her! She is all I want!” Then my chin finally dissolved into uncontrollable sobs. I had to tell my woman what I had seen in the abyss, tell her I was no longer afraid of the sea or even the prairie.
It was then that I became aware that the ship was moving away from my land. I scrambled to get up, but my father and several other men grabbed me and held me back, fearing another jump into the water.
Captain William made his way to the front of my vision and held his hands up, calming me down.
He pointed to the boat I had rowed out in, still sitting on the deck of the massive ship. Then he pointed to me and made a rowing motion toward land. But then he held up his hand and pointed to the sun with a finger.
In this way he slowly communicated to me that I could row back to my land, but I needed to wait ten days before returning to my people. Otherwise I risked making them sick with the dangers of the ship’s men. I nodded as I understood and the plan became clear to me.
Captain William made it clear that if I became sick in those ten days, I had to stay away from my people until long after I was well. The sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach began to elevate. I excitedly looked at my father, but as soon as I did, I realized what this would mean.
“Father…” I began. “You will not come with me, will you? You will not see my ceremony with my woman?” My mind raced all over again. “You will not see my sons grow strong or my beautiful daughters.”
For the first time in my life, a tear fell from the eye of my father. He went to speak once, but choked on a high note. “You will return to our people and you will lead them well.” He looked intently up and down my body, as if the outcome of his observation would determine what he said next. “You have now faced the waters. You are ready.”
I was shocked for a moment because I had not told my father anything about what I had seen under the water. The way he looked at me communicated that he too had encountered the ground of our being beneath the waves.
I nodded then, suddenly understanding the meaning in our moment.
“I will go back—” I began, but I too was swallowed by more sobs. My father nodded knowingly and put his big, solid hand on my shoulder. Then he embraced me for a long time.
By the time he had finished embracing me, I looked up the ship and saw that other men had turned over my boat and attached it to ropes in order to lower it to the water again. I saw them putting packages of some kind into the hull, and I would later find that they had given me food and water—enough to survive the ten days apart from my people.
I knew my father and I had said enough words to one another, so I walked toward the boat and waited for the men to finish preparing it. When they had, I stepped over the edge into it. A giant metal arm lowered me by metal ropes down into the water with my food. As I descended back to the water, I felt no fear of the sea. I felt only deep sadness over leaving my father blended with uncontrollable joy to see my woman again.
It had only been a few hours since I was with her, but I realized as I began rowing that I never wanted to be away from her this long again. My rowing was fueled by this combination of excitement and grief. I laughed alone in my boat, and as I did, tears flooded my face. The laughter turned from joy into sobs, and eventually back into laughter.
My father stood on the deck of the ship the entire time I rowed away from him, watching me as I pulled my tiny vessel to the point where the waters bent us over the horizon and we could see one another no more.
The end.
e
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April 27, 2020
The Depths, Part 5: The Mother of Worlds
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If you haven’t read the first parts, start with Part 1 here!
The cold shock ran up my feet and paralyzed my spine. My mouth was jarred open from the surprise and my my lungs instinctively tried to suck in air, but only received a mouthful of salty water. My throat burned and I felt the weight of the water move down my throat to my chest like a frigid stone going down my neck.
For several moments I was frozen underwater. I felt the motion of the waves and they both comforted and terrified me. I was being moved by something exponentially larger and more powerful than me; something so chaotic and vast that I could do nothing to possibly affect it. That thought brought a momentary cloud of rage into the back of my skull, rage so red and so black that every particle of my body tensed in anger, but it passed as I realized my need for air.
My limbs jumped back to life and began thrashing. I had not swam in water since I was a little child. I began to transport through time to when I was a little boy. My mother’s hands were beneath my back as I floated in the shallows of the waters. She was teaching me to swim.
“Relax your muscles,” she said. Her strong arms held me close to her breast and I felt safe despite my entire body resting atop the violent depths. I looked up into her tan face and she smiled down on me. The waters were calm on that day in my boyhood, and I remember the feeling of the waves rising and falling, gently lifting and dropping me. My mother slowly lowered her hands from my back so I was freely floating on the surface, but I still felt her fingertips keeping contact with my skin.
Not long after that, my mother would be taken by the waters herself. The strong arms which had once supported me in the water were now swallowed by it. My mother was dragged into the chaos.
I hoped to remember the correct movements of swimming, but my muscles seemed to rebel against me. They just thrashed wildly with no calculated rhythm or order.
I was not sure which way the surface of the water was, but I seemed to only be sinking deeper. My limbs were taking me further into the heart of the chaos. The water got colder the further I sank from the top, and I felt the weight of it pressing into every ounce of my body.
My ears exploded within my head and sharp pain ran from my ears into the center of my neck. Everything inside my skull felt like it was about to burst out of my forehead. My throat made a desperate gurgling sound which was curbed by the lack of air, ng nngguh.
As I descended, I imagined the hands of the dead reaching up to grab my ankles. I kept expecting to land on the bed of decayed limbs and twisted bones, but never did. I only sank deeper into the fluid abyss as my body raged against it, unwilling to give up.
The pressure weighed on my chest, like I was a doll and a massive man was pressing my torso between his palms. My arms and legs continued to beat against the indifferent water, barely affecting it. The salt water I swallowed filled my lungs. They impulsively tried to cough it out, but in doing so, sucked in more. It burned my throat like cold fire and I felt the acidic flame streak down my chest.
The air I so badly needed seemed further and further from me as the light from the surface dimmed.
At once my body relaxed and a sudden calm came over me.
I felt the fingertips of my mother on my back. They did not lift me; they simply touched me and I was comforted. My lips parted and I suddenly stopped caring if more water came in, or if air did, or if anything did ever again. My fear of the dark and chaotic deep suddenly vanished as I was engulfed by it. Had I conquered my fear by becoming it? Or at least, by allowing myself to give in to it?
Growing up, the other boys would stand in the shallows, with the water at their waist, and punch the waves as they rolled in. I would watch and notice different things about all of them. Some would beat the sea as if their lives depended on it. Others turned and put the breaks of the waves on their shoulders and rode the waves in to the shore.
But there was a third option. There were those boys—the ones I admired the most—who waded into the shallows and when a tower of water yawned leagues above them, they simply went limp. They let their bodies be thrown and tumbled hither and yon by the chaotic force. They always ended up with scrapes from the stones on the bottom, or rashes from the sand, but they enjoyed the feeling of letting the dark liquid throw them around like a leaf on a breeze. These boys were the most honest. You could not defeat the sea, no matter what levels of anger you achieved.
When I fought the other man for my woman, I knew I would win. Because the rage inside of me was much, much larger than the rage in him. His passion for my woman was lacking and I was able to defeat him despite his physical grandeur.
With the ocean however, no amount of rage or passion could affect that mass of water. You’re useless against it whether you are a boy splashing in the shallow surf or a man channeling the fury of a jilted lover.
Nor could you tame the chaotic void. You may be able to ride the smaller waves, but what about when the storms—“the fury of the gods”—rolled in? What good could your skill and precision do against those black towers? No, the sea cannot be tamed or conquered.
The only option is to surrender to the chaos; to go limp in her cold and dark grip.
My body was presently limp as it sunk deeper into the void, letting the currents swirl it back and forth like an infant being rocked by his mother. As much as the sea had terrified me my entire life, it presently comforted me with its gentle sway.
As I fell further from the sun, darkness came over me. It was both physical darkness from being far from the light, but also a physiological light as my vision clouded and my mind was calmed. My life was running through my mind at an incredible speed. It ran forward from my earliest memory—just my mother and father smiling down on me as I lay on the ground—to the present moment. Then it ran backward and as I ran through the entirety of my existence, I realized how very small I was.
I saw that my life was a grain of salt in this eternal ocean.
Nothing I did would affect the world. The past few hours alone had revealed just how little of the world I really knew. I longed to see all of it. I wanted to take my woman by the hand and lead her all across the world.
I wanted to feel her head in my chest again as we cried beneath the moon.
I felt so utterly small as the water swallowed me, and at once my mind seemed to break free from the restraint of thought and reason. I suddenly relinquished my desire for anything—good or bad things—and I was immersed in the mere fact that I exist.
I saw a light so bright it violently stabbed my eyes. I squeezed them closed, but the light persisted. A moment later they had adjusted and I was floating above the world. I was in the blackness of the night sky and saw the sun in the distance. It drifted toward the moon and the two merged into one eternal light that burned brighter than the lights of the ship without sails.
The stars drifted toward the New Sun and joined in the chorus of its brilliance. It was not simply white light, but the brilliance of every color displayed vibrantly at once. My mind couldn’t comprehend the amount of colors I was beholding.
Then from deep within my fractured ears, I began to hear the singing. At first it was one voice, quiet and small. It was like a child’s voice singing a simple melody which rose and fell like the motion of the water on a calm day.
This voice was soon joined by more, until a full choir sounded inside my head. The sound was both inside and outside of my head. I was submerged into the sound just like my body was in the water.
My eyes continued to watch as one by one, more stars were absorbed by the sun and it grew not just in brightness, but in colorful brilliance.
The sound of the choir grew until the chant was overwhelming. It was nearly intoxicating like my tribe’s hardwater. If I still had eardrums, the voices would have burst them again. At first the voices were simply singing a melody, but now meaning emerged from the syllables.
They were singing in a language I had never heard before; it did not sound like a human language—it was unlike anything I had heard before—yet I understood the meaning. My mind did not understand it, but something deeper within my being did.
The song’s rhythm continued to match the motion of the water and I understood it all at once.
I know your name,
I have seen you.
The voice called me by a name I had never heard before; a name which fit me more precisely than any hollow human word conceived in syllables and glottal stops.
Your fear is fitting;
only a fool does not fear this chaotic abyss.
I am the Ancient One,
the Mother of worlds
and the Father of suns.
I am the movement and the stillness.
I am the terror and the calm.
I am the bottom of the dark void
and the source of eternal light.
I am the wheel which will not be broken,
you are a spoke within my turning.
You matter because I know you.
The tune rang on, not in words, but in feelings and intangible thought. I understood that the creature of the depths was speaking to me, imbuing truth into my brain in a way language never could.
Follow the ancient paths,
Find rest for your soul in the land of your fathers.
I will meet you in the blackness of the water
and the expanse of the prairie.
You will not make your bed in the depths,
you will be lifted by the arms of your mother
and hold your woman once more.
The stars continued to slowly be sucked into the New Sun and the brilliance became overwhelming. I closed my eyes but the light persisted. My limbs felt heavy as they were pulled in every direction at once; gravity crushed my body while simultaneously pulling it apart. I felt the fabric of my skin begin to drift apart. It was the opposite of what was happening to the stars and the sun: while the little points of light were being sucked into the larger body of light, particles of my body drifted away from me and into the darkness.
I felt incredibly small but important.
If something as small as me mattered, then everything mattered. In that sense, I felt connected to the entirety of the cosmos. I no longer feared the depths or the prairie.
I was at one with creation.
I had encountered the Creator.
And the Creator knew my name.
The light grew and grew until my body began to violently seize and my limbs flailed, slapping the wooden deck of the ship.
I coughed and spewed water from my mouth, which cascaded back down on me as I lay on my back. One of Captain William’s men knelt beside me, hammering at my chest.
Through blurry eyes I saw my father staring down at me, crying.
e
April 26, 2020
The Depths, Part 4: “I had seen them before”
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The man next to my father smiled and said something to me in words I didn’t understand. He had all of his teeth and they were as white as his uniform. I was still stunned and couldn’t say anything. I looked to my father standing a few feet from Captain William and waited for some sort of understanding to descend upon me.
My father took a step toward me and finally began to speak. “My son…” he paused once more. He never hesitated when he spoke. Hesitation is for the weak, he would always say. “I have lied to you, and to my tribe. I don’t expect any of you to forgive me, but I want to explain.”
When he said these words, I felt my throat sink even further into my stomach. The past several hours had upended my entire life. Suddenly I had an impossible desire to hold my woman and let my tears fall into her hair again.
“It started two years ago,” my father continued. “These lights—this ship on the horizon approached the back side of the island. Some of the strongmen came to me and told me that foreign men had come to the back side of our land—you know, where the prairie meets the far waters. I went to meet them, and one of those men was Captain William.”
“Wait—” I spoke before my father had finished. “You knew these men before today?”
“Yes, my son. Captain William and his men come from a place called Ah-Mer-Ick-Ah, and they came in peace. When myself and the strongmen approached them before, we had our spears and weapons raised. We were ready to kill them or die defending our tribe.”
I was holding onto the rail of the deck as my father spoke. My legs felt weak beneath me. Captain William stood near us, smiling although he did not understand what we were saying.
My father continued, “Captain William and his men came in peace. They have weapons far beyond what we can imagine, and they would have easily destroyed us and our tribe. They can point at something far across the land and suddenly it is destroyed.” Then he paused to clarify, “‘Captain’ is his title. He is the Chief of this ship.
“Captain William and his men communicated with us, and after much discussion, I agreed to help them.”
“What could they possibly need help with?” I asked suddenly.
My father continued as if I had not spoken: “They are called Ree-Sur-Churs, and they work for a tribe called Sye-Ents. They want to learn about our tribe and our people, but they cannot come in. They communicated to me that if they came to our tribe, many of our people would die. I could not understand why, but they told me it would be bad. Captain William said I should come with them and tell them about our people and in doing so, I will help the future of my tribe. Of our tribe.”
I was still feeling queasy; the combination of the rocking sea, my outsized fear of it, and the mind-shattering news my father was giving me. I never imagined there could be tribes like Ah-Mer-Ick-Ah in the world. Up until this point, all the other tribes we knew had the same tools and weapons as us: sticks, stones, clay and fabric. This ship, however, had lights contained in jars, and many of these lights were even brighter than fires.
“So,” I spoke carefully, “you were never going to die today?”
“No, my son,” my father now looked directly into my eyes and spoke plainly. “I was going to go away with Captain William for the good of our people. They told me that they would be back in 25 moons, and that day is today. They were not supposed to come within sight of our people though. I intended to row out beyond the horizon and meet them on the water. But now our people have seen the ship and I must decide what I will do.”
I slid down the rail onto my backside and sat on the deck of the ship. I thought again about my woman and if my being here would affect my return to her. Could I see her again? Would this mean my father could come to our ceremony? Hundreds of questions ran through my mind at once.
Captain William walked toward me, knelt down, and put his hand on my shoulder. He began to speak slowly, though I still couldn’t understand a word he said. When he realized this, he turned and called some words to another man on deck. This other man approached and knelt down beside Captain William. He was older than me but younger than my father—like Captain William—and smiled in a friendly way as he looked into my eyes.
He put his palm flat on his chest and said, “Pat-Rick. Pat…Rick.”
I stared at him, understanding but unable to respond. He pointed his hand toward me and I knew he was asking for my name, but all of the new revelation had put my body and mind into ice water so it moved very slowly, like when your fingers are in the snow for too long. Everything I had known was upended and I suddenly realized how little of the world I really knew.
I looked at my father, then back at Captain William. All three men stared at me and no one said anything.
“F-father,” I said. “What will they do to us?” I felt tears creeping out the corners of my eyes.
Pat-Rick began waving his hands around in a flurry of movements, touching his chin and laying both palms open before me, and repeating. My brain was too exhausted to attempt to interpret his motions.
My father spoke, “I do not know, son.” His eyes were on the deck of the ship, rather than looking at me. I didn’t know what to think. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw motion and looked along the rail to see other men pulling my father’s boat and mine out of the water. They were carefully pulling them up with the ropes and hoisting them over onto the dock. Now I couldn’t row back to shore if I wanted to.
I felt the entire massive ship jolt at that moment too. It began to move, beginning a slow turn away from our land.
Sudden terror filled my stomach and I felt it fluttering the way it did before I fought that other man. I thought of my woman and suddenly a mad impulse drew me up to my feet. Without thinking or looking over the edge of the ship, I held the rail and threw my legs over the edge.
Then I was in the air.
My stomach elevated back into my throat and I was weightless.
I looked down into the black waters as they seemed to dance in a movement slower than time while my body flew toward them.
I had time while I was flying to think several thoughts—that’s how high the ship’s deck was.
I began to wonder how long it would take me to swim back to shore, to my woman.
Then suddenly I was underwater, submerged by the object of my deepest fears.
e