It was one of those cathartic moments when the jail cells of our eyes opened to release our emotions held captive deep within. As we sat across from one another, we talked to each other about the struggles of the recent days: roommates, moving and the fear of the unknown. It was only then that we allowed our depths to be exposed.
It was the unknowns that opened those gates and it was the unknowns that set 'em free. As we sat talking the emotion of fear held captive was released, and exposed to the light.
As I sat with my voice shaking, I transitioned from the tired frustration of living with another to the overly present fear at hand. In my strongest voice of the moment I expressed my fears of the present. She replied back, revealing the hidden, "It just happened. I didn't plan it." The fear didn't subside, and the hidden slowly became out of reach.
"It just happened." We don't know much beyond that. Things happen and we are stuck with the awful reality. We don't plan things and the repercussions are ours. The fallenness of the life we embrace holds little and we seek strength and reassurance.
We want broad shoulders and strong arms that hold longingly as we seek to escape our reality, as we try to depart to a place unimagined. We long for something we able to obtain if only we know where to look--where not to look. Those things that happen retreat only to again as we hope for those arms to hold us once again.
Monday, October 06, 2008
untitled (6.24.08)
It feels like one of those things that would inevitably come--death and sickness. One of the great injustices we're suppose to face when we're old--death and sickness, but more and more I begin to notice that age plays no part in this journey.
Sickness doesn't wait, it is chronic, and in my family it appears too common. We are sick in ways we couldn't imagine--brokenness, estrangement, trust and communication, abuse and those are the things that doctors can't diagnose. For that there is bi-polar disorder, post traumatic stress disorder, HIV, alcoholism, a frightening pregnancy, and now cancer.
It seems to be yet another attempt to make a life in despair. The screams of the saints and the silence of my cloistered mind, can not comprehend the enormity of the crisis
Theologically we are all in a state of crisis, disconnect, and it seems all to often that we seek it out--the depraved.
I struggle to know where to turn. When feelings have emptied, all that remains is the confused longing for touch--a word, a hand. It's a struggle for an abused mind to grasp. It is the crux of the soul, a problem with circumstance. It is terror that pulsates through me. Anger. A confusion that is immeasurable and makes you wonder where it is headed, where it will end. It is the abyss of the human experience. Devoid of form it seems gravely unbalanced, stacked against us in our battle to overcome--to give-in to the force that drowns from inside, from outside.
The rhyme and reason suggest an extreme absence of One who shall protect. Has protection passed over us, has it sank beneath our mantles and smote our love. It all seems uncertain, fragile and easily destroyed. Will a phoenix be awoken in my soul? Can it rise from the ashes and soar, or will it sink and drown in life's next sickness, it's next death.
Sickness doesn't wait, it is chronic, and in my family it appears too common. We are sick in ways we couldn't imagine--brokenness, estrangement, trust and communication, abuse and those are the things that doctors can't diagnose. For that there is bi-polar disorder, post traumatic stress disorder, HIV, alcoholism, a frightening pregnancy, and now cancer.
It seems to be yet another attempt to make a life in despair. The screams of the saints and the silence of my cloistered mind, can not comprehend the enormity of the crisis
Theologically we are all in a state of crisis, disconnect, and it seems all to often that we seek it out--the depraved.
I struggle to know where to turn. When feelings have emptied, all that remains is the confused longing for touch--a word, a hand. It's a struggle for an abused mind to grasp. It is the crux of the soul, a problem with circumstance. It is terror that pulsates through me. Anger. A confusion that is immeasurable and makes you wonder where it is headed, where it will end. It is the abyss of the human experience. Devoid of form it seems gravely unbalanced, stacked against us in our battle to overcome--to give-in to the force that drowns from inside, from outside.
The rhyme and reason suggest an extreme absence of One who shall protect. Has protection passed over us, has it sank beneath our mantles and smote our love. It all seems uncertain, fragile and easily destroyed. Will a phoenix be awoken in my soul? Can it rise from the ashes and soar, or will it sink and drown in life's next sickness, it's next death.
Monday, November 06, 2006
The Invitation (11.5.06)
Several years ago I was given a standing invitation to supper. The head of family said anytime I desired to, I was welcomed. In the years that followed I joined him at his table—sometimes weekly, sometimes monthly. Others joined me there too, he called them his family and throughout the years their faces, races, and lives changed, as did where supper was served. Some I ate with just once, others many times as the years went on—but I was always welcomed.
Sometimes I was able to make it to supper, sometimes not. But like an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, there was usually somewhere to sup. So even though I was not always able to join him, I was always welcomed.
But after some time of staying away, of dismissing his invite, I tried to crawl back to his table. So I went to where I thought there would be dining. Like an elite club to which I did not belong—I was made to feel un-welcomed. But I was always welcomed?
So for several months my invitation was revoked. He said I was welcomed—always; but this part of the family said, “no.” All those faces I had supped with grew faint, and I became sad. All those years, all those memories made fonder by my revoked invite. In hunger and thirst I left, sad and angry, in search of a table that would embrace me. I wanted to be with those others, that family that took me in and feed me. Maybe our time together would be short, maybe not—but either way they reminded me that he said, “I was always welcomed.”
Sometimes I was able to make it to supper, sometimes not. But like an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, there was usually somewhere to sup. So even though I was not always able to join him, I was always welcomed.
But after some time of staying away, of dismissing his invite, I tried to crawl back to his table. So I went to where I thought there would be dining. Like an elite club to which I did not belong—I was made to feel un-welcomed. But I was always welcomed?
So for several months my invitation was revoked. He said I was welcomed—always; but this part of the family said, “no.” All those faces I had supped with grew faint, and I became sad. All those years, all those memories made fonder by my revoked invite. In hunger and thirst I left, sad and angry, in search of a table that would embrace me. I wanted to be with those others, that family that took me in and feed me. Maybe our time together would be short, maybe not—but either way they reminded me that he said, “I was always welcomed.”
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Forced Stop (6.18.06)
Several weeks ago I was forced to stop. Stop everything. I simply climbed into my sweats and hoodie and remain there for the days that followed. Somewhere in my agony the only cry I could make was crushing, “Fuck.” It wasn’t pretty but in my clouded mind that was about the only thing that could come close to a prayer.
The weeks that lead up that moment didn’t seem to out of the norm. Things were as they were. I was trying to doing my careful (sometimes careless) balance of working and pursuing my degree, along with trying to reenter the church and maintain relationships. Somehow I was able to do it, but as weeks progressed the battle got harder. It was as if the depression was winning, and I was being suffocated in the process. I grew hopeless. My cries seem to be unanswered and my friends were falling away. All I wanted was to feel was the hand of God through a caring friend--but that never came.
What came was the despair and loneliness and I in the end my cries for help grew soft. They remained that way as I withdrew from the people around me. I would talk less with coworkers, I would leave classes early, but mostly I stepped back from the community of God. My friend’s, God’s people, were no longer able to hear me—so help and comfort rarely came.
Like a traffic light changing from green to red, I had found myself stuck trying to turn the amber light back to green. Even though it felt as if I was drowning. It was around this time that a friend said I needed to get some help, so I tried. I never expected that would be where I would find the most resistance.
It was in this process I learned several things about myself. 1. I made too much money to be placed on many sliding scale/ fee programs. 2. That I didn’t make enough to afford my own insurance. What I also learned is that if I wanted to receive any care I could afford I would need to work with an intern, someone still learning, or admit myself to a county hospital. It is about at this time that the hopelessness took root in me.
It was if no one was there.
That night I retreated to a friends house several hours away. I stayed there two days resting, sleeping, crying and trying to regain what I could of myself. I left thinking for the first time that I was finally being heard. I now had the support of some real close friends and for the first time in a long while, my mother.
I return to work at the end of the long weekend and continued with things the best I could. I tried to cover up as much as I could from the people I worked with, by remaining quiet, but simply ate me apart inside. I was starting to fall apart it felt like and the continual defeats I encountered I as I tried to reach out for help only took me further into my despair.
Public Health had referred me to several faith-based counseling services, others referred to people they had worked with in the past. Either way it was an uphill battle with many obstacles in the way—many that seemed to too big to tackle on my own—yet that was where I was, alone. It was about then that I started to slow down.
Then one afternoon I found myself being assigned a new set of obstacles to conquer and my newly discovered family support was being disregarded. I had reached a place where my financial situation should have made no difference and the doors where closed. It seemed as if the loving arms of Christ were crossed.
I tried to continue with my day. I went to class, and when the professor arrived he approved my incomplete. It was then that things stopped. I couldn’t go on. I returned home to the unknown…
The weeks that lead up that moment didn’t seem to out of the norm. Things were as they were. I was trying to doing my careful (sometimes careless) balance of working and pursuing my degree, along with trying to reenter the church and maintain relationships. Somehow I was able to do it, but as weeks progressed the battle got harder. It was as if the depression was winning, and I was being suffocated in the process. I grew hopeless. My cries seem to be unanswered and my friends were falling away. All I wanted was to feel was the hand of God through a caring friend--but that never came.
What came was the despair and loneliness and I in the end my cries for help grew soft. They remained that way as I withdrew from the people around me. I would talk less with coworkers, I would leave classes early, but mostly I stepped back from the community of God. My friend’s, God’s people, were no longer able to hear me—so help and comfort rarely came.
Like a traffic light changing from green to red, I had found myself stuck trying to turn the amber light back to green. Even though it felt as if I was drowning. It was around this time that a friend said I needed to get some help, so I tried. I never expected that would be where I would find the most resistance.
It was in this process I learned several things about myself. 1. I made too much money to be placed on many sliding scale/ fee programs. 2. That I didn’t make enough to afford my own insurance. What I also learned is that if I wanted to receive any care I could afford I would need to work with an intern, someone still learning, or admit myself to a county hospital. It is about at this time that the hopelessness took root in me.
It was if no one was there.
That night I retreated to a friends house several hours away. I stayed there two days resting, sleeping, crying and trying to regain what I could of myself. I left thinking for the first time that I was finally being heard. I now had the support of some real close friends and for the first time in a long while, my mother.
I return to work at the end of the long weekend and continued with things the best I could. I tried to cover up as much as I could from the people I worked with, by remaining quiet, but simply ate me apart inside. I was starting to fall apart it felt like and the continual defeats I encountered I as I tried to reach out for help only took me further into my despair.
Public Health had referred me to several faith-based counseling services, others referred to people they had worked with in the past. Either way it was an uphill battle with many obstacles in the way—many that seemed to too big to tackle on my own—yet that was where I was, alone. It was about then that I started to slow down.
Then one afternoon I found myself being assigned a new set of obstacles to conquer and my newly discovered family support was being disregarded. I had reached a place where my financial situation should have made no difference and the doors where closed. It seemed as if the loving arms of Christ were crossed.
I tried to continue with my day. I went to class, and when the professor arrived he approved my incomplete. It was then that things stopped. I couldn’t go on. I returned home to the unknown…
Monday, May 15, 2006
Easter Dispair (Easter 2006)
It’s hard to put into words the isolation I feel—my clouded mind struggles to purify a thought that would be pleasing. Pleasing to you God, but more so for those who watch my faith. The ebb and flow of emotions that I experience don’t fit well into the picture of an unknown yearning. I wish it was simple and I wish it made sense.
The celebration of this day—empty, and the comfort of risen Christ goes unnoticed. Things just weren’t right—my mind unsettled by a night of little sleep and violent dreams. How could I come before His thrown? Yet, I spent the day trying.
The silence of God discouraging, as doubt takes over. Is this where I am supposed to be? Am I where you want me God? The hollowness I feel--indescribable. As I listen to my heart and for your voice, God, I wonder should I remain where I am.
……
I woke up today to discomfort. Not a physical discomfort but a discomfort of spirit. In spite of faith the despair remains—it is just overshadowed by plastic joy of a resurrection taught on Easter Sunday. Like the empty tomb there was nothing there. Apathy. The celebration of this day—empty, and the comfort of risen Christ goes unnoticed. Things just weren’t right—my mind unsettled by a night of little sleep and violent dreams. How could I come before His thrown? Yet, I spent the day trying.
The silence of God discouraging, as doubt takes over. Is this where I am supposed to be? Am I where you want me God? The hollowness I feel--indescribable. As I listen to my heart and for your voice, God, I wonder should I remain where I am.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Writing my Faith (3.12.06 draft)
In many ways my writing began with my faith. They both seemed to start at the same time. Early on my writing took place in my journals, in private, as time progressed they began become more public, much like my faith.
My journals became a place in which I could ask questions, questions that often held no answers. Questions that were essentially my cries of pain and my hunger for comfort spelled out on the pages of notebook. Incomplete in many ways they witnessed the struggles I was going through. They were my early prayers—and in many ways God was being condensed into the few pages of a spiral notebook that I hid from those around me. The question were always “why?” --Why had this happened? Why did dad have to die? Why am I the way I am? Why don’t you get rid of this discomfort?
Spoken or unspoken, written or unwritten the questions and the journey of my faith began on a sheet of paper. From the early pages tucked away so has to hide my pain to the more public writings shared with friends and counselors. My faith, which is a foundational piece of all my writing, began to creep out the crevasses of my room and into the world I knew. Who knew what would happen as I began to write, as I began to type. Would clarity come out of this?
In high school I wrote about my dad’s death as a way of understanding. I couldn’t stand to be isolated anymore and in my sixteen-year-old brain it only made sense to write about it. Maybe I would get attention from it, maybe someone would care. That is all I really wanted. So as time past and I was invited to youth group that met at my school, I began writing. This time privately, at night when no one was looking. The depths of my soul were released from the prison in which they spent their day and my questions took life. God if you’re real will you just make things better? I hurt. I wish I were like other kids. I miss my dad.
So much remained a mystery in my faith and in my writing. It was a work in progress (something that is not refined to this day) that I tried to articulate with my limited vocabulary. …
My journals became a place in which I could ask questions, questions that often held no answers. Questions that were essentially my cries of pain and my hunger for comfort spelled out on the pages of notebook. Incomplete in many ways they witnessed the struggles I was going through. They were my early prayers—and in many ways God was being condensed into the few pages of a spiral notebook that I hid from those around me. The question were always “why?” --Why had this happened? Why did dad have to die? Why am I the way I am? Why don’t you get rid of this discomfort?
Spoken or unspoken, written or unwritten the questions and the journey of my faith began on a sheet of paper. From the early pages tucked away so has to hide my pain to the more public writings shared with friends and counselors. My faith, which is a foundational piece of all my writing, began to creep out the crevasses of my room and into the world I knew. Who knew what would happen as I began to write, as I began to type. Would clarity come out of this?
In high school I wrote about my dad’s death as a way of understanding. I couldn’t stand to be isolated anymore and in my sixteen-year-old brain it only made sense to write about it. Maybe I would get attention from it, maybe someone would care. That is all I really wanted. So as time past and I was invited to youth group that met at my school, I began writing. This time privately, at night when no one was looking. The depths of my soul were released from the prison in which they spent their day and my questions took life. God if you’re real will you just make things better? I hurt. I wish I were like other kids. I miss my dad.
So much remained a mystery in my faith and in my writing. It was a work in progress (something that is not refined to this day) that I tried to articulate with my limited vocabulary. …
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Letter to the Editor...(2.14.05)
The letter below is a letter writen to the editor of the Seattle Times in response to an article about a church pastor who wanted to derail legislation that would provide homosexuals with rights taken for granted by the rest of us. Upon reading the letter in the paper I became glaringly aware of the my mistake. The verse I reference is Romans 3:3 my intent was to reference Romans 3:23. Forgive my error, please.
Published on January 22, 2006
Published on January 22, 2006
Omnia vincit amor
In biblical proportions, some sins are greater than others' preference
As an evangelical seminary student, I struggle with Rev. Ken Hutcherson. The message preached in such a boycott [of Microsoft, Hewlett-Packard and other gay-rights supporters] is not the message of Christian love, but rather a message of hate that is echoed throughout many of our churches.
The issue is one in which the Bible does make a clear statement on whether or not homosexuality is a sin. However, when did it get elevated to higher level of sinfulness than other sins we deal with regularly? The Bible is clear that "all have sinned" (Romans 3:3) and that includes the reverend, my gay family member and myself.
However, I think it is convenient that the reverend has chosen the sin that does not require any real change in his world. He will not likely forgo much of his personal comfort in this fight, leading me to think that his time would be better spent fighting sins that permeate most congregations in America, such as divorce and child abuse; why worry about such an issue when there are more pressings issues [the addressing of which] stands to have a greater impact?
— Craig Jacobson, Bellevue
http://archives.seattletimes.nwsource.com/cgi-bin/texis.cgi/web/vortex/display?slug=sunlets22&date=20060122&query=jacobsonSunday, January 08, 2006
Programs & Evangelism (1.8.06 revised)
A few weeks ago a friend and I were up late playing cards. It was well into the early hours of the morning when we began to talk about a topic not too uncommon for us. We began to talk about the church and what, as young people, we think should be done differently.
The conversation began with me defending the work I did as a missionary. Throughout this discussion the questioned centered on whether or not the program was successful in reaching teens for Christ and much to the surprise of those present I defended the work I did in Germany. I defended the workers, the missionaries like myself, who in spite of the program began to invest in the lives of the youth in their area.
For the most part it wasn’t the workers who failed the kids--it was the program. Within the program, the spiritual formation of these young peoples was triggered by an emotional response. Give the kids the best week, the best weekend, the best hour of their week and let them equate that the God and a life with Christ. Do all this and lead them to a house built on shifting sand. Few survive.
It was no different then the manipulation that occurs at a youth or college worship event. Dim the lights, play some rockin’ music, then some softer music, give them time to think, reflect, play some more songs that trigger memories or something that gets them emotionally charged. By the second song half the crowd is on their feet—praising God?
A cynical response to an experience so many of us hold so dear—I know I do. These experiences were extremely formational in my spiritual life. However, I cannot say that they were the only things that helped me wade further into the waters of faith; it was the people who came along side me.
The idea of a large church with many different programs is bothersome to me. It is bothersome simply because programs fail. They fail so often to reach the people they are intended to reach. A college group ministering to the college students, but in many cases it is to college students who already know Jesus--not the student who is out the floundering in the life, struggling to make things better.
I have read of cults that do a better job of targeting student populations then churches. They have recognized the difficult place college puts students in and use that to their advantage. Students who are lonely and confused or struggling to make sense of a doctrinarian that occurred in their youth or in the their family and find someone who takes them in, cares for their needs and winning them over for their cause.
Shouldn’t we be there; not in the sense that we take advantage of this difficult time, but in that we are present. Maybe we miss the point the when make evangelism solely about people accepting Jesus and going to heaven.
This view of evangelism often serves no one but us. It is our goal that they meet Christ and in many cases not for their wellbeing but for ours. We feel better knowing that we might meet them again in heaven. But how often does our evangelic mission stop the moment we think that they may not accept our message.
The conversation began with me defending the work I did as a missionary. Throughout this discussion the questioned centered on whether or not the program was successful in reaching teens for Christ and much to the surprise of those present I defended the work I did in Germany. I defended the workers, the missionaries like myself, who in spite of the program began to invest in the lives of the youth in their area.
For the most part it wasn’t the workers who failed the kids--it was the program. Within the program, the spiritual formation of these young peoples was triggered by an emotional response. Give the kids the best week, the best weekend, the best hour of their week and let them equate that the God and a life with Christ. Do all this and lead them to a house built on shifting sand. Few survive.
It was no different then the manipulation that occurs at a youth or college worship event. Dim the lights, play some rockin’ music, then some softer music, give them time to think, reflect, play some more songs that trigger memories or something that gets them emotionally charged. By the second song half the crowd is on their feet—praising God?
A cynical response to an experience so many of us hold so dear—I know I do. These experiences were extremely formational in my spiritual life. However, I cannot say that they were the only things that helped me wade further into the waters of faith; it was the people who came along side me.
...........
My friend and I attended a church that was moving into a bigger, better building. It was hailed as a great opportunity to minister to the community around them, when in reality it simply created more room. A year later the church hasn’t grown and the existing participant simple have more room to move around. It had become a million dollar building built to house the people of God for a few hours each week. Buildings do not attract people to Christ for the most part, it is people, or more importantly--it is God. And I can’t help but think is that what God wants us to do with our money.The idea of a large church with many different programs is bothersome to me. It is bothersome simply because programs fail. They fail so often to reach the people they are intended to reach. A college group ministering to the college students, but in many cases it is to college students who already know Jesus--not the student who is out the floundering in the life, struggling to make things better.
I have read of cults that do a better job of targeting student populations then churches. They have recognized the difficult place college puts students in and use that to their advantage. Students who are lonely and confused or struggling to make sense of a doctrinarian that occurred in their youth or in the their family and find someone who takes them in, cares for their needs and winning them over for their cause.
Shouldn’t we be there; not in the sense that we take advantage of this difficult time, but in that we are present. Maybe we miss the point the when make evangelism solely about people accepting Jesus and going to heaven.
This view of evangelism often serves no one but us. It is our goal that they meet Christ and in many cases not for their wellbeing but for ours. We feel better knowing that we might meet them again in heaven. But how often does our evangelic mission stop the moment we think that they may not accept our message.
…...........
I think in both cases we seem to have missed the point. It is not a building, a program or even us who rescue humanity from its plight—it is God.Thursday, December 29, 2005
First Date (12.14.05)
So I went on a first date a week ago. It was with my brother. Not what one would expect to call a first date, but my brother and I don’t talk. We never really have—we’ve tried from time to time but nothing lasting. Every attempt we make is typically one sided in that one of us does the initiation and the other goes along with it. Typically it’s not mutual. This last time was necessary-just unwanted. It was all him.
This date came to be with my request that his latest boyfriend not be invited to Christmas. Normally, I would mind if one of my siblings invited a significant other to dinner--it was just that I couldn’t find a redeemable quality within the man. My first encounter with him was unimpressive and each subsequent visit has been worse. Its too the point where his presence is likely to trigger a mental health crisis in my life.
I stopped talking to my brother about two months ago. He spoke to me like a child and so in my passive aggressive way I stopped talking. He wanted me to be okay with things. He wanted me to okay with his new disease and the in addition to that, the man who gave him it. This date was an attempt at bridging the gap. Smoothing things over in attempt to win this man an invite to the holidays. No success- I don’t like him and my brother isn’t the one to change that. Time will.
So we went on our date. Three hours of interaction between my brother and I. Not my typical idea of a good time. I don’t hate my brother- I just don’t know him and going to dinner just the two of us meant that we had to interact. After the car ride to the restaurant we ran out of small talk and I wasn’t ready to approach the issue at hand. So for about an hour we continued the small talk-- touching on everything but the meaning of our time together.
It’s hard for me to open up to someone who I don’t think is interested. It’s even harder when that person looks bored. Our lives have been so different for so long. I live a life that is very different from his and I hold a belief that says the life he lives is not approved of by God. I think that is where we get stuck and we can’t move past this.
My faith tells me him being gay is a sin. It’s hard to say that is not what I believe but it’s not what I believe fully. I believe the Bible is clear when it says homosexuality is a sin. But it also says all sins are equal so what does that matter. Has the church got its panties in a knot over something that in many rights is no different then their lying. I struggle with all this.
A sin is a sin is a sin, right? But for some reason that is not how we treat it. In our minds and in our hearts we have created a hierarchy of sinfulness in which we can compare ourselves to one another. It allows for us to look at each other and make a judgment. Is that what Christ died for? Did He die so that can play judge to those who lifestyle is outwardly different then our own? We are obsessed with this role. We are Judgy McJudgerson and we love it.
Our comparisons require nothing of us. We are not responsible for their actions and we are free of having to do much more then point a finger and shame them: those homosexuals, those pornographers, those masturbators, those sinners… shame on them. It doesn’t make sense.
I struggled with an interesting issue this spring—SIN. It wasn’t that I was sinning, because I am sure I was, but rather what do we do about sin. I became obsessed with this, and Thomas Merton. It wasn’t fair—maybe that isn’t the right word, but something like that.
This question came after a local mega-church claimed to be responsible for a major corporation pulling their support of gay rights legislation. They threaten a boycott of the company and the company said it was focusing their lobbyist on more business related interest. Either way this church did Christ a huge disservice in my mind. I often wanted to cuss the pastor out for his hate on behalf of church.
For many weeks this pastor would be on the news or in the paper claiming that it was God’s will and that they have won a victory for Christ. How? By creating a culture that is homophobic and hateful. I can’t but thinking that that is not message God had intended for us.
So as result of his public dislike, a gay rights group went to protest and sit in on his church’s Sunday services. In this group was a sweet old Christian lady who was dwarfed by this large man of a pastor. In her kindness she asked the pastor if her gay son would be welcomed at his church. He replied that he would be welcomed, but if her son didn’t change his ways that he would kick him out of the church like all the other sinners.
I wanted to ask the pastor whom have they kicked out for lying, cheating, or leading a fellow believer to stumble? Who have they removed because of their generally accepted sin, which falls in the acceptable range on the sin scale? It frustrated me. How can you hate a people group and still be Christian? Is that the virtue that came after love thy neighbor or is that a footnote on the bottom of some page in the Bible.
Like I said, I struggled with SIN. How do you love someone who is sinning without saying everything is okay? I wish things were different. It would be so easy if we weren’t asked to repent. To not have to say we are sorry and ask for forgiveness—how easy would that be? If somehow there was a way to make it possible that we could live as we please and not be responsible for it. I am confident that God loves us regardless of whether we change. The rich young ruler, Jesus loved him, even though he wasn’t willing to make the changes Jesus asked of him.
So what if someone never changes. They seek God with everything they have but change nothing. What if my brother is gay for the rest of his life? I know the Jesus has for him isn’t negated, even though it isn’t acknowledged but where do we draw the line.
For some time now I have understood that acceptance (and tolerance for that matter) doesn’t necessarily imply approval. Living in outside of Seattle I accept that it rains, and with some frequency, but that doesn’t mean I agree or approve of it. The same goes for snow.
I accept the way my brother lives his life. I don’t approve. However, that my no means should imply that I hate him. I don’t. Often I don’t agree with how he treats people but that isn’t hate. The frustration that is had when someone hates by brother because he is gay can’t always be described—unfortunately he never sees that.
It goes to show how little we know each other. He says we do a good jump of separating those parts of our lives: my faith and his homosexuality. However, if we were to truly get to know each other what we were doing wasn't going to work. I can’t separate my faith from who I am and I can’t ask him to separate his homosexuality. Maybe its because we view each other lifestyles as choices. And in both cases choices that impact our lives immensely. He can’t talk about his illness without talking about his lifestyle, and for me I can’t talk about being a student without mentioning my faith.
Being a seminary student everything is about faith. This degree prepares me for a world where if I divorce my faith from my education things become problematic. So if when we went the entire first date with out discussing my faith I struggle to say what it is I wanted. My life doesn’t make sense without the religious context, or at least not to me. That night I struggled to explain the grief I was experiencing and the difficulty I have in undergone trying to understand why.
This date came to be with my request that his latest boyfriend not be invited to Christmas. Normally, I would mind if one of my siblings invited a significant other to dinner--it was just that I couldn’t find a redeemable quality within the man. My first encounter with him was unimpressive and each subsequent visit has been worse. Its too the point where his presence is likely to trigger a mental health crisis in my life.
I stopped talking to my brother about two months ago. He spoke to me like a child and so in my passive aggressive way I stopped talking. He wanted me to be okay with things. He wanted me to okay with his new disease and the in addition to that, the man who gave him it. This date was an attempt at bridging the gap. Smoothing things over in attempt to win this man an invite to the holidays. No success- I don’t like him and my brother isn’t the one to change that. Time will.
So we went on our date. Three hours of interaction between my brother and I. Not my typical idea of a good time. I don’t hate my brother- I just don’t know him and going to dinner just the two of us meant that we had to interact. After the car ride to the restaurant we ran out of small talk and I wasn’t ready to approach the issue at hand. So for about an hour we continued the small talk-- touching on everything but the meaning of our time together.
It’s hard for me to open up to someone who I don’t think is interested. It’s even harder when that person looks bored. Our lives have been so different for so long. I live a life that is very different from his and I hold a belief that says the life he lives is not approved of by God. I think that is where we get stuck and we can’t move past this.
My faith tells me him being gay is a sin. It’s hard to say that is not what I believe but it’s not what I believe fully. I believe the Bible is clear when it says homosexuality is a sin. But it also says all sins are equal so what does that matter. Has the church got its panties in a knot over something that in many rights is no different then their lying. I struggle with all this.
A sin is a sin is a sin, right? But for some reason that is not how we treat it. In our minds and in our hearts we have created a hierarchy of sinfulness in which we can compare ourselves to one another. It allows for us to look at each other and make a judgment. Is that what Christ died for? Did He die so that can play judge to those who lifestyle is outwardly different then our own? We are obsessed with this role. We are Judgy McJudgerson and we love it.
Our comparisons require nothing of us. We are not responsible for their actions and we are free of having to do much more then point a finger and shame them: those homosexuals, those pornographers, those masturbators, those sinners… shame on them. It doesn’t make sense.
I struggled with an interesting issue this spring—SIN. It wasn’t that I was sinning, because I am sure I was, but rather what do we do about sin. I became obsessed with this, and Thomas Merton. It wasn’t fair—maybe that isn’t the right word, but something like that.
This question came after a local mega-church claimed to be responsible for a major corporation pulling their support of gay rights legislation. They threaten a boycott of the company and the company said it was focusing their lobbyist on more business related interest. Either way this church did Christ a huge disservice in my mind. I often wanted to cuss the pastor out for his hate on behalf of church.
For many weeks this pastor would be on the news or in the paper claiming that it was God’s will and that they have won a victory for Christ. How? By creating a culture that is homophobic and hateful. I can’t but thinking that that is not message God had intended for us.
So as result of his public dislike, a gay rights group went to protest and sit in on his church’s Sunday services. In this group was a sweet old Christian lady who was dwarfed by this large man of a pastor. In her kindness she asked the pastor if her gay son would be welcomed at his church. He replied that he would be welcomed, but if her son didn’t change his ways that he would kick him out of the church like all the other sinners.
I wanted to ask the pastor whom have they kicked out for lying, cheating, or leading a fellow believer to stumble? Who have they removed because of their generally accepted sin, which falls in the acceptable range on the sin scale? It frustrated me. How can you hate a people group and still be Christian? Is that the virtue that came after love thy neighbor or is that a footnote on the bottom of some page in the Bible.
Like I said, I struggled with SIN. How do you love someone who is sinning without saying everything is okay? I wish things were different. It would be so easy if we weren’t asked to repent. To not have to say we are sorry and ask for forgiveness—how easy would that be? If somehow there was a way to make it possible that we could live as we please and not be responsible for it. I am confident that God loves us regardless of whether we change. The rich young ruler, Jesus loved him, even though he wasn’t willing to make the changes Jesus asked of him.
So what if someone never changes. They seek God with everything they have but change nothing. What if my brother is gay for the rest of his life? I know the Jesus has for him isn’t negated, even though it isn’t acknowledged but where do we draw the line.
For some time now I have understood that acceptance (and tolerance for that matter) doesn’t necessarily imply approval. Living in outside of Seattle I accept that it rains, and with some frequency, but that doesn’t mean I agree or approve of it. The same goes for snow.
I accept the way my brother lives his life. I don’t approve. However, that my no means should imply that I hate him. I don’t. Often I don’t agree with how he treats people but that isn’t hate. The frustration that is had when someone hates by brother because he is gay can’t always be described—unfortunately he never sees that.
It goes to show how little we know each other. He says we do a good jump of separating those parts of our lives: my faith and his homosexuality. However, if we were to truly get to know each other what we were doing wasn't going to work. I can’t separate my faith from who I am and I can’t ask him to separate his homosexuality. Maybe its because we view each other lifestyles as choices. And in both cases choices that impact our lives immensely. He can’t talk about his illness without talking about his lifestyle, and for me I can’t talk about being a student without mentioning my faith.
Being a seminary student everything is about faith. This degree prepares me for a world where if I divorce my faith from my education things become problematic. So if when we went the entire first date with out discussing my faith I struggle to say what it is I wanted. My life doesn’t make sense without the religious context, or at least not to me. That night I struggled to explain the grief I was experiencing and the difficulty I have in undergone trying to understand why.
Things Not Discussed (12.03.05)
Growing up we never talked about things as a family; we brushed it under the rug and hoped to never see again. Talking about things that had happened meant admitting that they happened. They couldn’t be ignored, yet ignoring them was just easier. Out of sight and out of mind, that became our motto. So when I began to talk about things—things became problematic. My mother often told me, “We don’t talk about this,” “We don’t talk about that,” and especially “We don’t talk about religion. We just don’t do that.”
Funny how I would grow up to talk about the things they never wanted me to talk about. After so many years of not talking about anything I broke our silence and began to tell my story. I talked about the this’s and the that’s and all the things my mother never liked me talking about, like: my dad, my depression; and my faith.
As much as mother would like that I don’t bring it up I can’t help it—I talk about dad. Dad didn’t live us. He lived across town. Mom kicked him out before I can remember and for a long time I was never sure why. He was a big man, red hair, red skin, and a distinct smell: gin and cigarettes. Dad was not a nice guy- he drank a lot and smoked like a chimney. He used to beat up on my brother and I, but he drew the line when I came to my sister- he never touched her. After years of being fearful of him, my brother and I stopped seeing him. It was November of the seventh grade. He had come over to Mom’s and I just knew it was my turn to get beat. I was sick of it and took off. That was last time I saw him—he died four years later.
It was best and worse day of my life. That day led to the two others things I am not to discuss: depression and faith. The depression was always there. I always seemed to feel sad and often never wanted to be around others. I wasn’t shy- I just didn’t care to be with others. Strange as it may be it was just how I was-how I am. I never knew it was depression until I was in college and I stopped being able to do the things I normal could do. For the next several years I struggled to make sense of my every changing moods and questioned what could be causing them. Was it my father? He wasn’t there, he never was. Was it my faith? It seemed as if all those good looking Christian kids never struggled with the shit I dealt with on a daily basis. Maybe I wasn’t good enough—was that it. Or maybe this made me more spiritual. I could enjoy the good times because truly I had seen the dark times. I seemed to be okay with not fully being able to make sense of it until the day God was silent.
God stopped speaking to me about year ago. I stopped hearing the Audible Voice the told me which way to turn. Okay, not really. I just stopped feeling His presence. My faith wasn’t gone—it just appeared that God was. However, these days I am a seminary student and in the minds of many spiritually closer to God then the average person. Nothing could be further from the truth. I am just a guy who is trying to make sense of those things not discussed so I can discuss them. Funny. When I entered into the family of God I never expected I would enter my own family. We don’t talk. We simply brush things under rug: our past, our heartaches and to be quite honest, our faiths.
Funny how I would grow up to talk about the things they never wanted me to talk about. After so many years of not talking about anything I broke our silence and began to tell my story. I talked about the this’s and the that’s and all the things my mother never liked me talking about, like: my dad, my depression; and my faith.
As much as mother would like that I don’t bring it up I can’t help it—I talk about dad. Dad didn’t live us. He lived across town. Mom kicked him out before I can remember and for a long time I was never sure why. He was a big man, red hair, red skin, and a distinct smell: gin and cigarettes. Dad was not a nice guy- he drank a lot and smoked like a chimney. He used to beat up on my brother and I, but he drew the line when I came to my sister- he never touched her. After years of being fearful of him, my brother and I stopped seeing him. It was November of the seventh grade. He had come over to Mom’s and I just knew it was my turn to get beat. I was sick of it and took off. That was last time I saw him—he died four years later.
It was best and worse day of my life. That day led to the two others things I am not to discuss: depression and faith. The depression was always there. I always seemed to feel sad and often never wanted to be around others. I wasn’t shy- I just didn’t care to be with others. Strange as it may be it was just how I was-how I am. I never knew it was depression until I was in college and I stopped being able to do the things I normal could do. For the next several years I struggled to make sense of my every changing moods and questioned what could be causing them. Was it my father? He wasn’t there, he never was. Was it my faith? It seemed as if all those good looking Christian kids never struggled with the shit I dealt with on a daily basis. Maybe I wasn’t good enough—was that it. Or maybe this made me more spiritual. I could enjoy the good times because truly I had seen the dark times. I seemed to be okay with not fully being able to make sense of it until the day God was silent.
God stopped speaking to me about year ago. I stopped hearing the Audible Voice the told me which way to turn. Okay, not really. I just stopped feeling His presence. My faith wasn’t gone—it just appeared that God was. However, these days I am a seminary student and in the minds of many spiritually closer to God then the average person. Nothing could be further from the truth. I am just a guy who is trying to make sense of those things not discussed so I can discuss them. Funny. When I entered into the family of God I never expected I would enter my own family. We don’t talk. We simply brush things under rug: our past, our heartaches and to be quite honest, our faiths.
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