The Tension of the Present: Reading unto Love

Note: This was an assignment  for my Hermeneutics class. Edited slightly for clarity.

So much has changed for me, and so quickly. Two years ago, I was deeply entrenched in the evangelical subculture, surrounded by missionaries and their teenage children on the other side of the Pacific. Last year, I was investigating Orthodoxy, deconstructing the faith culture I was raised in, and I felt like I was going through a spiritual puberty, mood swings and all. Today, I am attending the Seattle School in hopes of eventually becoming a therapist, and the cross around my neck and the creed in my heart clearly identify me as a member of the Orthodox Church. In this paper, I will attempt to outline my personal hermeneutic, a task akin to painting a still-life of a lava lamp during a tornado.

To understand where I am, we must start with where I’ve been. I was raised in a weirdly ecumenical[1], fundamentalist, evangelical, charismatic Christian home. I was taught that homosexuality was a sin (and apparently a really bad one) and that Darwin was incredibly misled, but also that “salvation belongs to our God”[2]  and making definitive salvific statements one way or the other about anyone but yourself is stupid. A part of this contradictory tension is due to my parents’ conflicting spiritualities. My mother once told me that we didn’t attend a certain church close to our house because “they are all dead.” She meant spiritually, but my head was filled with apocalyptic imagery of pews filled with mummified parishioners. My father, on the other hand, often told me that everyone was probably wrong about something in their theology, from our pastor to the Pope, and that the most important thing was to try to live out your faith to the best of your ability, trusting that God would forgive us our misunderstandings regarding theological specifics.

When I was very young, my parents attended a reclusive, we-are-right-everyone-else-is-probably-damned kind of church[3]. The church fell apart[4], and that trauma deeply affected both my parents and me. After the grand explosion, I had a certain distrust for spiritual authorities. I was of the understanding that the scriptures were accessible to every person, and therefore we all had a right to speak about them, and to disagree with one another about them[5]. I felt especially allowed to disagree with youth pastors.  That bit got me in trouble a few times.

I was wholeheartedly into the idea that intellect plus scriptures equals truth. I bought into the common evangelical idea that tradition was a man-made thing and therefore untrustworthy. I once spoke with a missionary in his seventies who literally spat the word tradition as if it were a curse[7]. This mindset has been critiqued by more traditional believers as being one in which “you make every man his own Pope[8].” Through my studies at SPU, I came to see the importance of tradition in forming communal faith, and the importance of a communal faith period[9]. Suddenly, the practices and beliefs of Christians living in the time between Paul and me seemed pertinent for the first time.

I had always held the scriptures as “divinely inspired[10],” as my upbringing had taught me. But what did that mean? As far as I could tell, the only universal belief among Christians is that this means the scriptures are “useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting and training in righteousness.[11]” But what did that mean for our hermeneutic? Did it mean that simply by reading the scriptures a person would have direct access to the fullness of divine truth? Somehow I no longer thought so.

What began as an investigation into the formation of the canon[12] became a discovery of the wealth of Christian tradition before the reformation, which, to be fair, is four times larger, time-wise. I began attending an Orthodox Church shortly after graduating from college. I became convinced and convicted by the incredible truth I found in Orthodox history[13], belief,[14] and practice[15]. I joined the Church on June 3^rd of this year.

Now we have an interesting cluster of ingredients to cook up a hermeneut. On the one hand we have strong individualism and psychological reason to distrust the top-down theology of the institutional Church. On the other hand, we have a sense of the importance of the community of faith and a deep respect for the saints who have gone before us. How does this contradictory, tension-creating individual read anything, much less Holy Scripture?

The answer, out of left field, is through a lens of love. Rollins would call it a “prejudice of love.”[16] One common thread throughout my spiritual journey has been the belief, held by myself and by my various teachers, that the end goal of Christianity is to make us more Christ-like, more loving. If a faith does not produce love, then that faith is false in the most important regard. The Parable of the Sheep and the Goats[17] is foundational to my hermeneutic. This parable says nothing about belief, doctrine, or traditional affiliation. It says everything about love, justice, and how we ought to treat our fellow human beings.

One major downside to this hermeneutic is that I can easily be drawn into a kind of moral ambiguity that doesn’t allow for hardly any definitive statements about right and wrong. The draw towards easy mercy can relativize sin into functional non-existence.  The method I have attempted to employ to counteract this tendency is to concede to the Church[18] on matters that I am undereducated in, with some exceptions. My Church does not ordain women. My Church believes that homosexuality is a sin. I disagree with my church on these things. I do not read these conclusions into the scriptures, nor do I see the history that gave rise to these traditions as sacred. My reasons for each of these statements could, and have, fill a bookshelf’s worth of theological tomes, or an online forum of theological posts. But, at the end of the day, my reason is simple. I believe that these doctrines inhibit the Church’s ability to love. Love doesn’t deny people what they are[19], or relegate them to second-class status. This is the same reason that I could not be a Calvinist when I was a Protestant. I do not read love into Calvinist doctrine. Thankfully, the Orthodox tradition has never felt kindly towards predestination.

This hermeneutic is messy. It is messy because it is practical. The world is messy, and we live in it. I could have, and have had, a hermeneutic that established a spiritual infrastructure that was entirely separate from the functions of the physical world. The implications of the doctrine of the incarnation make that a worthless endeavor. It matters what the world ought to look like, but if we are unable to work with the world-that-is unto the birth of the world-that-ought, then we have used doctrine to silence our love, and “love is not silent[20].”

My experience at The Seattle School thus far has continued to push the boundaries of my hermeneutic of love, while at the same time upholding a hermeneutic of tradition. With all due respect to my theologically inclined classmates, I do not want to take on interpreting the scriptures on my own. I do not want to be so detached from the faith of my spiritual fathers and mothers that I begin to question things affirmed in the most ancient creeds. I want the faith of the apostles. I desire to remain rooted in the tradition of my faith, and in the heart of my God, which is a heart of love for all mankind. I feel the pull towards the past in the form of my faith tradition. I feel the pull towards the future in the hope for eventual reconciliation of all with Christ. Living in the tension between the two, well, I believe Dan would call that love[21].

---

[1] For my context.

[2] Revelation 7:10,(NRSV).

[3] In my lifetime, I have encountered many churches with this exact same worldview. I came to expect it, which saddened me and made me resistant to the institutional Church.

[4] For more information on this, see: Greg Olsen. A Twisted Faith: A minister's obsession and the murder that destroyed a church. (New York, NY: St. Martin's Press, 2010).

[5] The Doctrine of Sola Scriptura, quite well liked by the spiritual leaders in my early life.

[7] [Redacted], interview by Tyson Conner. Undergraduate Research Project (2010).

[8] I don’t know where this saying came from. I first encountered it in: Rev A. James Bernstine. Surprised by Christ: My journey from judaism to orthodox christianity. (Chesterton, IN: Conciliar Press, 2008), 115.

[9] This is largely due to the combined efforts of Dr. Rick Steele and Dr. Daniel Castello.

[10] 2 Timothy 3:16, (NRSV).

[11] Ibid.

[12] Here I owe special thanks to Dr. Daniel Castello, Christo Lute-Wise, and Nathan Knapp.

[13] Timothy Ware. The Orthodox Church. (London: Penguine Books, 1997).

[14] M. Charles Bell. Discovering the Rich Heritage of Orthodoxy. (Minneapolis, MN: Light & Life Publishing Company, 1994).

[15] Holy Trinity Monestary. Prayer Book. (Jordanville, NY: Holy Trinity Monestary, 2010).

[16] Pete Rollins. "The Third Mile." In How (Not) to Speak of God, 55-71. (Brewster, MA: Paraclete Press, 2006), 63.

[17] Matthew 25:31-46, (NRSV)

[18] The Scripture Project. "Nine Theses on the Interpretation of Scripture." In The Art of Reading Scripture, 4.

[19] Mister Rogers may be the best example of this, and was very influential in my childhood. For more on Mister Rogers, see: Mister Rogers & Me. (Directed by Bejamin Wagner. 2012).

[20] A quote from a sweatshirt, part of a marketing campaign for OMF, a missions organization that I maintain ties with.

[21] Dan Allender, “Priest, Prophet, King.” (Lecture, Faith, Hope, and Love: the Therapeutic Telos, The Seattle School of Theology and Psychology, Seattle, WA, November 19, 2012).

Solidifying My mind

Can you smell the music of angels?
It breathes like the fish that fly through your dreams.
Make sense of my madness, young man.
I pay you.
I dare you.

We are one, but we are two, and there is a silent third who watches and (smiles? weeps?) forever.

Listen to my words.
They will make sense of your vision, and the churning in your stomach, and the pain in your shoulders.

I will take your heart apart.
This isn’t science; there is no blood test.
Lay your pieces on the table, and I will feel them out.

You hair smells like incense. What is the liturgy of love? How do we codify reality? What happens when we break your understanding? Can we betray our senses, or perhaps we become more aware?

The Wymen dance in the reflection of the non-canonical icons.
Purple socks peek through biking pants.

Let’s talk about the resurrection.
Let’s play with your identity for a moment.

I stopped running for a rest and this is the result.
My pieces fell around me and I shake them like the dust.
The metallic taste of fear overwhelms the caffeine in my system.
I do not know who I am, but… did I ever?

 I have a confession. Father, hear my confession. Master, pardon my iniquities. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of self, I will fear no therapy. For God so loved the world that he died and died and died. And he lives and lives and lives. And we live in a world of our own creation, staring at our own faces, because if we lived in His we would surely die. Holy God, Holy Mighty, Holy Immortal, have mercy on us.

The Jester and the Prophet and the Stranger face the lonely Orphan who emerges from a memory only to be shamed once more by the Widowed Priest.
Dan Allender’s Archetypes can go to Neverwhere for all I care.
They’re too true to be real, and they’re drinking all my coffee.

He asked to for me to stop translating.
Language is translation, and this is the closest thing to purity I can muster.
I don’t know if this rambling scares you, but it sure as hell scares the shit out of me.

Forgive me, my pixie. I am so imperfect, and I love you more than I can perform. I have always only ever been an actor, but I want to hold you backstage. Away from the bright lights and soliloquies, the jokes and the pathos. I want to meet you in my street clothes, but I feel so much more comfortable in the costume of the lover.

As this rant continues, it starts to make more sense.
Perhaps I just needed to write it out, feel it in my fingertips for I have been struck dumb.
No external references, no more witty turns of phrase.
Only speak, only write, only say the last bit of solid ground you have.

Lord, Jesus Christ, risen Son of God, have mercy on me, a confused and broken and willing sinner.

Today and Tomorrow

(Note: Listen to this while reading this.)

So... I've been sick. Mucus and tears, sleep and cough, head filled with cotton and thoughts filled with same, kind of sick. Today, on the way home from work, I was overcome with a sense of possibility. I don't know how else to describe it. Perhaps there's a better word... brb. Nope, Thesaurus.com has no better word for the feeling I had other than possibility, but it did have a few words that helped flesh out the idea. Hope, play, fortuity, opportunity, and prayer (although perhaps not the prayer that Thesaurus.com meant).

I think the feeling had something to do with the weather, the fact that I hadn't been out of my house for two days, the fact that I hadn't had a smoke or a coffee for 24 hours, and the 14 hour sleep I got the night before. It was the kind of feeling that belongs to a crisp, dry Seattle night right around the time that fall turns into winter. It was a feeling of the now.

But not just of the now, although it definitely belonged to the now. It was a feeling of tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow. It was a feeling of endless tomorrows, endless sunrises over endless mountaintops. It was a feeling of scope. It was a feeling of hopeful perspective.

Sometimes sickness will make every day feel like a dull slog through fog as thick as pea soup (or peanut butter, if you prefer). Sometimes life in general will lead to that feeling, but perhaps that is the result of a sick life. In any case, it gets that way. The kind of grey trudge that you get if you've ever taken a walk on the Oregon coast during thick fog and you lose track of how long you've been walking. The kind where tomorrow is just another semi-solid chunk of grey sand in an unpredictable and uncaring grey world. That's where I was yesterday.

But, today. Today. Ah, today was something else. Today was Explosions in the Sky over my roommate's sound system, electric guitars rising to the sound of a heartbeat aimed for the center of a brilliant sunrise. Today was dancing with my Love in a warm kitchen until we're both slightly breathless, and not entirely from physical exertion. Today was a rise, a lift above the fog.

There was a saying in my hometown. When your head is above the clouds, the sun is always shining. Corny, yeah, but today I shot above the clouds. I got a glimpse of where we're going, and it's awesome. There's light up there. I see hope. I see home. I see family, friends. I see love.

At Thanksgiving this year, my little brother said he was thankful to be living now rather than "back then," whenever that is. He saw today as a fruit rapidly ripening for tomorrow's harvest. I thought that was very wise. My uncle disagreed with him, and made a point of disagreeing with him after dinner. He said something about how things were much safer/simpler/better back whenever. My brother stuck his ground. I thought that was very wise.

What's the point to all this? My point is thus: tomorrow is a good thing. Today is a good thing because it gets us to tomorrow. Yesterday was a good thing because it got us to today. Yes, yesterday is filled with painful memories, but it is also filled with planting. Today is filled with trudgery, but it is also filled with growth. Tomorrow is filled with uncertainty, but it is the time of the harvest.

I've been sick, but I'm getting better. I was better today than I was yesterday, and I can only expect the same from tomorrow.

Quantify

I have 10 minutes to move on from this coffee shop.
I have 133 pages left in my book.
I have 5-7 pages to write on said book.
I have 2 comics in my bag that I'd really like to read.
I have 5 weeks left in this term.
I have 2.66 years left in this program.
I have 3.5 hours before I am allowed another cigarette.
I have 2500 unread e-mails in my gmail.
I have 7 tabs open in my browser.
I have 8 dollars in my wallet.
I have 3 icons on my little shelf.
I have 2897 views on my little blog.
I have 519 friends on my facebook page.
I have 2 buttons missing from my shirt.
I have 3 minutes to move on from this coffee shop.
I have 0 ideas as to the purpose of this exercise.

Waiting for the Water to Break

(Note: I don't mean to inundate y'all with blog posts, and I would wait a few weeks to post this if it wasn't so very much of this precise moment. Anyways... here goes.)

Today it was supposed to rain. I like rain. Don’t get me wrong, I hate being wet. I don’t like it when my feet are moist for weeks on end, the only reprieve from damp socks being my daily shower. But, I do like rain. Rain cleans things. It’s nature’s maid. Rain sweeps all the cigarette butts into the storm drains, and transfigures dust into clay. This city always looks best in the rain. Every surface is shiny. Everything glistens.  Hats come back in style, and umbrellas create little mobile pods of bearable sidewalk.  There’s more of an excuse to stay inside, turn up the heat, turn down the lights, cocoon. And, it was supposed to rain today.

It didn’t. There were sprinkles here and there, but instead of the heavy washing that this city so desperately needs, the entire day has been filled with regular upward glances at a dark grey sky, pregnant with torrent, but refusing to push.

In my house in the weeks before a new baby comes it’s like Christmas. Not the day, the season. And the Christmas season sucks. The Church ladies organize who will bring the meals for the first weeks with the same Machiavellian tenacity they employ in casting the nativity play.  The diapers are stacked by the bassinet with care in hopes that new life soon will be there.  There is a glorious, wonderful, miraculous thing. And it’s coming. It’s coming, it really is. Now, go help your father test the baby monitors. 

This city dies every summer. The grass goes away, and the tourists swarm like maggots over our overheated arterial routes. We live in a fever dream. Everything familiar dries up, and this city resembles itself the way a grape resembles a raisin. We stop taking vitamin D supplements. We sit outside on purpose, and we swim. In the Pacific Ocean. Like crazy people. This city loses its mind, its heart gets confused, and it dies.

When the baby is days away a certain kind of quiet settles in the house. It’s the quiet of a compressed spring; a cocked gun; a firecracker, wick lit. In these few days, emotions are closer to the surface. Little disruptions turn into World War Mom. Little absurdities produce giggling fits that last for an hour. Tears come easy. Every moment is overwhelming, but not quite real. The real thing is coming. So very soon.

When the fall comes, and the tourists leave, and the students come back, the city pauses and waits for the water to break. Who will we be this year? Will we band together over another Snowpocalypse? Will we find another reason to distrust our police? Will we finally admit that Portland is winning the great hipster war of the early 21st century? Our minds fill with expectant questions, and we begin to prepare. We close the flue. We put the storm windows back on. We bring the hats and coats out of the closet. Our ever-growing, beloved sweater collection once more sees the cloud-filtered light of day. We stop flirting with the various iced and blended coffee drinks and return to our staple lattés and americanos. We are waiting to be reborn in the rain.

It was supposed to happen today, but it didn’t. Maybe tomorrow.

A Letter to Kimberly Smith (Assignment)

This letter was assigned as a response to this book:

Link

The prompt was "Write a letter to Kimberly Smith, the author of Passport Through Darkness that reflects on what you have learned about faith, hope, and love through her story. It is meant to be a significant reflection on what this book compels you to consider about how one lives out faith, hope, and love and the cost for doing so."

Dear Kimberly Smith,

When I picked up your book, I was expecting to trudge through yet another artifact of Christian pulp. I was expecting to read stories about miraculous healings, knowing that the unhealed were omitted. I was expecting to find allusions to hardships, but nothing more emotionally difficult than I would find in my aunt’s Daily Inspiration for Christian Mothers devotional. I was very wrong. Before I continue any further I must apologize for judging your book based on my prejudices, and I must thank you for allowing me (along with however many other people have read this book) to follow along with you, vicariously encountering a kind of darkness that most of us have only heard of in whispered implications in newspaper headlines.

A bit of my story: I grew up wanting to be a missionary. This desire led to the consumption of enough Christian pulp novels to make a body sick. As I grew older I began to see a distinction between the stories that missionaries told in their books and powerpoint presentations, and the stories they told when you got them alone. In 2009 I was given the opportunity to interview a number of missionaries all around SE Asia, and my suspicions were confirmed. Suffering for Christ feels the same as suffering for anything else. Depression on the mission field is just as debilitating as depression at home. Thirst, hunger, grief, pain, death; these things do not become more bearable or less penetrating because a person carries a Christian standard. This is the secret that the missionaries imparted to me, and this is the secret that much of the Church simply isn’t interested in.

The Church wants those it sends out to come back with stories like the ones in Acts, which is to say stories they’ve heard before, stories that take place in a different kind of place and time entirely, stories that have already been interpreted by other people in ways that make us feel good, Christian pulp. And, although my cynicism must be coming through quite clearly, I cannot blame them. Although nothing in your book was new to me in a technical sense, it was a very hard thing to read. I live in the information age and my generation is especially awareness-minded. I knew what was out there in the darkness. Thing is, it’s much harder to know who is out there in the darkness. Not cognitively, but emotionally, relationally. It’s hard to see the faces of suffering innocents. It’s hard to hold someone else’s story and feel helpless.

The Church wants its Christian pulp because the truth is hard. We want our faith, hope, and love without the difficulty. We want the light of the world without the uncomprehending darkness. I really get it. Christ would be much easier to accept if he had expelled death and pain from existence, rather than dying painfully. Your story has reaffirmed what I have suspected about the truth of the Gospel. That it is a deadly thing; that the love of Christ, when lived into by Christians, can and will lead us to torture and death the same as it did Christ. Love drives us into the gates of Hell, or the darkness, or the depths of human suffering. Whatever you call it, we cannot go there voluntarily without the imperative of love. Once in the darkness, it seems like we are stripped of everything safe and comforting. All we have left are these ideals: the imperative of love, the bold foolishness of hope, the brief respite of faith.

If we are confronted with the true cost of our faith we must feel pain that is not our own and make it a part of ourselves. We must be confronted by faces that we spend so much energy hiding from and identify with their tears. Who in their right mind wants that? Who in their right mind willingly gives up comfort and wealth for pain and poverty? Who in their right mind hears a man say, “Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood will have eternal life” (John 6:54, New International Version) and bases a life on this man’s teaching? We people of faith, we are not in our right mind. “For the word of the cross is foolishness” (1 Corinthians 1:18)…

This may sound nihilistic. I do not intend it to be. If I do sound defeated it is only because, in light of the emotional impact of your book, I only continue because I believe that God is good. This truly is foolishness “to those who are perishing, but to those who are being saved it is the power of God” (Ibid). Perhaps none of us can only truly live out a life worthy of the title “Christian” except exclusively by the power of God.

I do not know what to do with a story of such pain except to hold it. I do not know how to act out in love except by weeping. I do not know how to hope except by crying out against injustice. I do not know how to maintain my faith except by lamenting God’s inaction. And yet, I am inactive as anyone else. I find myself waiting for injustice to come into my world before I act. I can wait no longer. I must do something, I just don’t know what. In the meantime, I will read your story and I will cry. I will try to hold the pain that I see. I will try to hold tight to the faith, hope, and love that will kill me, as it killed my master. I will look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come. This will sustain me, foolish though it may be.

Tyson J. Conner

Excerpt From My Class Notes

We were assigned to write out a "Psalm of Complaint" about something in particular that we wanted to lament to God.

Nothing is hidden from you, oh God. But, why do you hide the truth from your people? Why do you let lies spread like a blanket over a pile of shit? We can smell. We can remember it, but we cannot show it to the world.

Why does the despot retain his throne? You have taken the jewels from his crown, and most of his kingdom is scattered. But still he retains his castle. Still he presides over an impoverished and diseased realm.

Reveal the Truth! Overthrow the haughty scholar. I am daily reminded of their bold injustice. Remind them, my God, of me!

Do not let the tears of your children go untended. Do not let the blood of your daughter go unavenged. Remember us. Make them remember us.

Holding Tight to Humor

When I'm nervous, I make jokes. So many jokes. Not all of them are funny, but I'm looking for a laugh. Chuckles, guffaws, giggles and snickers are a cultural universal for "hey, it's alirght." When I make a joke around my fellow new students, I am usually awarded with the emotional security I so crave. But, multiple times over the past month I've made a joke in the presence of either an older student or professor. I may as well be preforming stand up to a fish tank. On one such instance my joke failed with an assistant instructor, so I clarified my humorous intentions. "That was a joke. Not a good one." The delivery was funny, trust me. Her response in the most insightful, calming tone that seems to be the default among older students when talking to us baby-seattleschoolites: "You're allowed to be playful here."

GAH! If I'm allowed to be playful, then why doesn't anybody want to play with me? The other babies, unindoctrinated like me, seem to play fine, but these older kids... gosh. I wrote in the margins of my notebook for some class or other the following line. "If I can't laugh, I have nothing." I understand that the point of a therapeutic context is not to be entertaining, but when everything is taken so dang seriously I begin to feel like my soul is drowning.

Laughter is a breath of fresh air, a light in a dark room. Laughter is an evolutionarily honored socialization and stress-relieving technique. When I laugh, it's not to make light of my problems, but to bring light into them. At least, that's what I think it is.

Perhaps my draw to humor is simply a defense mechanism, and an unhealthy one at that. Perhaps I use humor to distance myself from pain, and thereby ignore it. Perhaps a penchant for silliness is a penchant for escapism. But, somehow I don't think so.

I came to this school hoping that I would go through a process of spiritual, emotional, and intellectual formation. But, now I am confronted with the fear that I entered into a context of cookie-cutter like forming practices. I do not wish to become the kind of person who looks you in the eye and says, "you're allowed to be playful," while denying an invitation to play at the same time. I don't want to take myself or my thoughts too seriously. I want to be a person who never loses sight of light in dark places and things. I want to be a person who laughs.

I came to this school hoping that I would leave it with more than I came with. I still believe that this will be the case, but there is a very small part of me that fears that I will leave here having lost my desire to laugh. And if I can't laugh, I have nothing.

Found in an Old Journal, Dated 8/14/11

Selfish, that's what you are. A self-interested rational actor, that's all that you are. Remember my droogie, there are others to think about.

"Follow me, and abandon everything!" You passionately cry, "I will break your heart and show you things wonderful to tell. I will turn you inside-out and change your entrails into gold which, when finally put back in place, will become that cold, hard thing in the pit of your belly that you pray to God (?) you could shake off like a bad dream. Fall in love with my delusion. Take my hand, I will show you the brightest starts I can dream of, and the brightest dreams I can star in. Watch me sacrifice you so that I can save the world. I am a heretical Abraham, you are my excommunicated Issac. The holy is for the holy, and God will not provide this madman with a ram."

Shadows and Epiphanies

There's this thing I've been trying to figure out for a while now. I've been reading about saints here and there, and one thing I've found is that those seeking theosis seems to have a point usually early along their journey where they are suddenly, hugely, and joyfully aware of their own sinfulness and inadequacy. Most of you will be familiar with the scene in The Brothers Karamazov where Elder Zosima's elder brother proclaims "I am guilty of everything before everyone!" It's that. It's illogical and confusing and the joy displayed by these specially illumined at the suddenly clarity of their own "guilty" state seems to be something close to insanity.

 The kinds of things that the pious say about themselves can sound like excerpts from a dangerously depressed person's journal, but they say these things not with resignation but exuberance. One of the daily morning prayers in my prayer book is Prayer I, of St. Marcarius the Great. It begins, "O God, cleanse me a sinner, for I have never done anything good in Thy sight."

Anyone who follows this blog (first of all, God help you) will be aware of my penchant for self-loathing. In the past few months, a majority of visits to this site have come from people googling the phrase "self loathing quiz." The googlers are directed to this blog post. I kind of feel bad about it, but I assume that most of them close the tab as soon as they realize that it's not actually a quiz but a little personal introspective exercise made public. Point being, I have and continue to struggle with self-hate, self-worth, and self-loathing. How is the above prayer different from the thoughts that go through my head at 4am when I should be asleep?

I brought up the saintly self depreciation phenomena with my friend Trif, who is very smart and has been Orthodox longer than me. I could tell that there was something qualitatively different between what these saints express and the manifestation of my insomnia. But, I was having a hard time putting it into words. He said that the source of this realization was a proximity to God and not a proximity to one's sins, and then it clicked.

The saints, the blessed, and the holy fools see their sins the way we see our shadow when standing near a single, bright light source. They see them clearly, well defined, and very dark in contrast to everything else in their sight. The rejoice not in their sins, but in the contrast between their sins and the brightness of God. God's light shines with both a physical and spiritual light, it is the ultimate reality, it is the purest energy, the source of creation. This light penetrates human beings, eventually shining out the other side of us, the icon of God acting as a window into eternity. No matter how long you stand in front of this light, no matter how filled and reflective you become, you will always cast a shadow of some sort. And what joy to see that shadow. What joy to see your sins so clearly. Clear reminders that we are not God, but he is so very near. This close to the source of all things, everywhere you look you see God. It's even present in the formation of that shadow. When utterly engulfed in the divine ecstasy is the default position.

Self-loathing, on the other hand, is the result of looking for your shadow in a very dark room. A shadow is usually pretty identifiable, even in a very dark room. The difference being that in the dark room the line between the shadow and general darkness can become confused. We, simple creatures that we are, mistake the darkness all around us for a continuation of our shadow, which looks especially dark in this place. The self-loathing has no perspective with which to contrast  full darkness and mere shadow. Everything is simply, dark.  We can fall into our shadow and retreat, getting smaller and smaller, into deeper and deeper darkness, like the bus in "The Great Divorce" returning to Hell.

Self loathing says, "I have never done anything good." The sacred epiphany says, "I have never done anything good in your sight." In God's sight, in the full brightness of the light, God is all that is good, and we are so close. We are so close to the warmth, the grace, the ultimate Good. Nothing else could rightly be called "good" in God's sight. Yet, he does. "God saw that it was good." We were created to be good, as God is Good, perfect as our Father in heaven is Perfect. We're headed that direction, at least we hope we are. We're going towards the light, and our shadows are growing sharper, and somehow thinner.

The First Starry Night in Seattle

On the first starry night in Seattle, my beloved and I climbed onto the roof of an apartment complex (she says they were condos) to stargaze for the very first time. I had brought a blanket from my memories that smelled of safety. We didn't need it. The night was warm and the breeze was soft. Our summer clothes danced softly around our bodies on the first starry night in Seattle.

I prepared a feast of Top Ramen and Oreo cookies, paired with a bottle of Two-Buck Chuck just in case we forgot our tribe. We cleansed our pallets with oranges grown in my father's orchard as our feet dangled off the edge of the roof where we, like children, spat into the abyss, showering the foliage with citrus rain.

I took my beloved by the hand, turned up my phone and played ring-tone samples. We danced to midi versions of top 40 hits, classic rock, show tunes, and the Doctor Who theme. As we danced we stared at the stars for the very first time. The entire city was dark, so dark, but for the stars and the moon and her eyes and to this day I cannot tell you which shone brightest.

There was a quietness on the first starry night in Seattle, a quietness that grows from darkness. There were no streetlights buzzing, no television talking heads cheerleading, no karaoke, no video games. An occasional rustle in the bushes, raccoons or perhaps an emancipated lap-dog running off into the wilderness to join a pack of wolves.

The night was so calm that it bordered on sacred. We respected our elders with renditions of songs that our grandmothers heard on the radio as children when the family would gather around and listen to voices from farther away than you can see. We sang songs that our brains learned from O Brother Where Art Thou but our bones always knew, songs that make poor white kids like us feel like we've always been this way, and that's really fine. Our songs turned to prayers, and our prayers turned to lullabies, and our lullabies turned to whispers, and our whispers to dreams.

I held my love's hand, on the first starry night in Seattle, and we slept on the roof of the apartment complex (she says they were condos). We woke up to sunshine, and noise. The city came back. The buses were honking. The televisions were barking. But, all I could hear with any clarity was the sound of her breath like the sound of the ocean caressing the shore when there is no wind and the tide stands still.

I pray every day that the first starry night in Seattle isn't also the last. I would like to see the city get the rest it deserves one more time. I would like to once again dance on the roof, singing old-timey and stargazing. But if it never comes again, there's still the glint in my love's eyes, there's still the twang in my singing voice. There's still the feeling that we've always been this way, and that's really fine.

Appreciators

Since it's father's day (barely) this is appropriate.

I just watched the most recent Doctor Who Christmas special called The Doctor, The Widow, and The Wardrobe. I loved it. I cried, which is not a thing I usually do. I used to cry far more easily at things on a screen, but perhaps I've grown more cynical. Perhaps I'm growing more sentimental, I don't know. In any case, I took to the internet to see what little bits of trivia there were on IMDB about this particular episode, and I was confronted with the internet's reaction to the most recent incarnation of The Doctor, which is... extreme.

A lot of people don't like the current Doctor. Just like a lot of people don't like the current cast of SNL or George Lucas' most recent vision for Star Wars. Which is to say, vehemently.

So I have this tension. On one hand, the internet doesn't like the way things are going on Doctor Who, on the other hand, I cried for the first time in months. What does this have to do with Father's Day? I'll tell you.

My Dad likes the Star Wars Prequels. My Dad likes Doctor Who, in every incarnation. My Dad likes things. My Dad is an appreciator.

We're supposed to be discerning when it comes to media. We're supposed to like "good music" and make fun of "shitty music." We're supposed to worship Han Solo, and hate Jar Jar Binks. We're supposed to judge things as good or bad while we experience them. My Dad doesn't quite work that way.

My Dad will defend George Lucas until all the comic book guys in the universe throw up their hands in exasperation. "Worst Nerd Ever." My Dad will find something good in every silly, simple story. My Dad is determined to identify the worthwhile in everything he experiences. My Dad doesn't know much about art, how to make it, where it comes from, or why, but he sure knows how to appreciate it.

When I first realized this about my Father, I didn't know really what to think of it. Aren't we supposed to understand and critique? There's a place for that, sure, but I wonder if some things weren't just made to be appreciated. I wonder if there aren't artists, creators out there who just want someone to see the thing they made and like it, unabashed, unreserved, and unconcerned with social acceptability.

Like I said, there is a place for critics. But, there is also a place for appreciators. A place for people like my Dad and people like me.

I have discovered that my default approach to things is the same as my father's. I like things first and foremost, and I usually have to be convinced otherwise. This can lead to a certain amount of embarrassment. I like music that makes me feel something, even if it sucks. I like Doctor Who, even if the new producer is still developing a voice. I genuinely enjoy sappy movies and Sting's Christmas album.

I've had a lot of conversations with my friends about ironic detachment and automatic disdain for "inferior" art. It's something that I don't like even though I'm as guilty of it as anyone of my generation. But, as I'm more removed from my collegiate cultural cocoon I find my inner appreciator coming out more and more. Maybe this is just the way I am. I certainly hope so. I'm happy to be an appreciator. The world is a lot more beautiful when you don't feel like pointing out every zit.

In other words, thanks Dad. You made me an appreciator, and the world is prettier for it.

Source: Our Valued Customers

A Quiz for the Self-Loathing

Step 1) Read through these questions:

How do I impact?
Who do I touch?
What is my spin? My acceleration?
Who keeps track of the Brownian dance?
Do my prayers amount to anything, or am I simply shouting at the ceiling?
Do my words fall on deaf ears, or like piss on your mother's flowerbed do they spoil the soil?
Is the world a better place because I am in it?
Will they ever see through my deception?
Will I ever be discovered?
What will happen when I am?
Will they point and shout "hypocrite!" or will they shrug me off with the other charlatans?
How many ways have I squandered my inheritance?
How many toes have I clumsily crushed? How many hearts?
Am I primarily individual, or primarily part of a collective?
Have I done enough to deserve love?
Will I ever?
Am I pitiful?
Am I strong?
What is the difference between pretending to be strong and actually being strong?
Who will I drag with me when I fall apart?
How do I protect them from me?
Do I need to?

Step 2) Don't try to answer them.

Step 3) Breathe and pray.

Step 4) Remember this:

There is a kind of love that spreads like fire within the hearts of human beings. It is transforming and divine. It is a gift of grace, bestowed by the Trinity through mystical means that I do not understand. We are burned by and burn with this love. We are purified and healed by this love. This love is beyond understanding, and beautiful.

Some of the questions listed above are worth considering, but when wrapped up in the bundle of self-loathing and fear they become contextualized to a self-centered and negative perspective. Many of the above questions are irrelevant to the most important question: are you seeking the truest love? So long as you do that honestly and wholeheartedly, you needn't worry about the rest.

Being broken by the world is like being dropped out of a window in a sandstorm. You're pelted by tiny assaults on every side, sometimes cracking, perhaps even breaking. Eventually, something big comes and you shatter completely, your particles absorbed into the sandstorm, thrashed about in the wind to assault and  break others.

Being broken by God is like being wrapped in a cloth and broken bit by bit. Nothing is lost in the process that wasn't cancerous. Once a thing is broken, it is far easier to re-form. It hurts to be put back together. But, it is good.

Step 5) Live your life with love.

A Long Time Coming

Tonight, I did something brazen. Tonight, I did something dangerous and exciting. Tonight, I did something wonderful.

You have a few caveats, as you so put them. Nothing too extreme, simple worries really. You wonder how to explain it. I call it dancing. "But without touching?" You say. I just smile.

We walk past my ex as she gets a movie with her date. We walk past the school where we first met. We walk to the canal. Where else do people like us do things like this?

What will they say? I'm not concerned. Maybe I should be, and so I try to give you words. Like you really need any of mine. Yours are quite good enough.

We Determine The Relationship, and I am giddy. And, you are giddy. I bite my lower lip and can't stop smiling. I just can't stop. I try, but I just make a silly face as you bury yours in your wrists.

I tell a story about a Giant and a Pixie. Nothing to make Neil proud, but the two friends I called seem to like it. At least on facebook.

We drink tea, and your housemate makes pleased noises from the living room. We talk for six hours, and I haven't had a cigarette.

I leave your house with a pleased pantomime, if untrained. Maybe Paul will give me some pointers. Maybe the sky will turn orange and drop citrus flavored rain. I would blame the pixies.

I should have gone to bed an hour ago, but I'm a little too jazzed to sleep. The most recent Wiretap episode on my iPod is all about family. It almost makes me cry twice, but not from any sadness. There's none of that tonight.

I don't know what will happen. This should worry me somehow, but my smile refuses to go away.

All I remember is your eyes, your unwashed hair, your smile. You know what you're getting into, and yet you got into it anyway. I must have won the lottery.

A Relatively Safe Conclusion to Come to at 2:30 in the Morning After Intensive Facebook Stalking

You're way cooler than I am.


Then again... I already knew that.

A note on the name change

I got a new g-mail address, and I was too lazy to log in to blogger every time I wanted to make a new post or obsess over my stats, so I just added the new Google Account to the blogger profile. In some ways, this is less pretentious anyway.

TJC

My Grandma's Bible

My grandma's bible is on the bottom shelf of my bookcase. It's been moved around quite a bit. It was on the top shelf for a while, but then movies and comic books took its place. It migrated down as textbooks and classic literature piled up like failed relationships, dusty relics of a college education.

In 1956 my grandma's house burnt down. The bible survived. The pages are stained with smoke, and the leather is brittle in places, but the bible survived. She carried it with her every week to church. She read it every night before bed. Eventually her hips went, and she couldn't go to church. Then her eyes went, and she couldn't read small print. She kept the bible anyway.

In 2007 I went away to college. I packaged up all my childhood memories into two suitcases and I went to her house to say goodbye. On my way out the door, she told me to wait a minute. She went into her room which was rebuilt 50 years before and came out with the bible.

"I can't use it anymore." She said, "you'll be able to put it to better use than I can." I think in that moment she put it to better use than I ever will.

She died four months later. We laid her to sleep next to her husband.

Sometimes that bible is a memory of her. It still smells like her house. It brings back memories of Taco Soup and CMT, of decades old jello and flower print nightgowns. Sometimes it is a symbol of a faith far older and more significant than any human life, but made up of so many human moments. Sometimes, I see it as a holy relic. Perhaps it will prove to be miraculous. I have a sneaky suspicion that it would not burn if I held it to a flame.

My grandma's bible is on the bottom shelf of my bookcase. Someday, I may crack the spine and read the 23rd Psalm in the Old King James. Or, I may not. That's not what relics are for, anyway. They are memory objectified and eternity encapsulated. It is evidence that some things survive in the fire.

Damp

I walked to the corner to store to buy more cigarettes. Cigarettes which I’ve been smoking more of recently, more than I can afford, not as much as my older brother used to smoke which he could afford even less, but more in any case. I’m reading The Zero and that’s fucking with my head. It’s one of those morose, confusing books that people with my affinity for philosophizing over dive bars and sad stoners tend to be drawn to.

I stood under the weird overhang of the second story at my apartment complex, an odd little cavern that’s often filled with steam belched from the dryer vent deep in the cavern like a methane leak in some subterranean dungeon in West Virginia.

It was raining. Not enough to keep me from reading my book, but enough to make everything damp, and slowly more damp, and the cavern was dry. So, I stood, reading my book, and out of the corner of my eye I saw a trickle of water make its way across the dry pavement, forging a new path from one side of damp to the other.

There were other rivers across the artificial desert of the cavern, places where puddles had broken their water tension damns and miniscule flash floods carved insignificant rivers over the dirty asphalt. But, this one was small and new, and alone. It crept at a snail’s pace. The shiny bubble at the front rolling onwards, following gravity, leaving a trail of damp and slowly less damp behind it.

I thought, in my self-important state, of my own little journey. I thought of the way that I had broken the religious water tension from the SPU puddle and began making my own way from damp to less damp, seeking something more damp. I thought of how I had avoided other, wider rivers. The rivers of atheism, Anglicanism, non-denominational evangelicalism, libertarianism, socialism, hedonism. I’d been at the fountainheads of each of these rivers and, for some reason or other (by the grace of God?), flowed away.

Now I find myself halfway across the artificial desert, and I am ready to get back to the damp. I am ready to leave this parking lot and flow into the street, into the gutter, the drainpipes, and eventually the ocean. I want to be done with this dry place and reunite with my soggy brothers.

I have been told that I am a support for people. I do not want to believe this. I want to support people, yes. But, to be a support? No. I want to help prop others up, but I also want to be able to walk away without fear that they will fall.

Recently I’ve felt my emotional energy draining from me. It takes a lot to talk with people about the hard things, about the important things. This past week was filled with talking and listening and praying and crying, and by the end I was running on empty. The other day after another important conversation that I’m very glad I had and would not take back for anything yet left me in a bit of a funk, I came home around 1am and surfed the internet in an emotionally numb daze for an hour and a half. I had a vague sense that I was looking for something. That night I dreamt about work.

I was walking out to the dumpster, and when I opened it I saw movement in a blanket on the steel floor. I reached in and pulled out an infant, wrapped in a dirty strip of cloth. Terrified and traumatized, I took the infant into the office. There were customers in the café, so I walked quietly and didn’t make eye contact with anyone. In the office, we called the police, who came and took the infant to the hospital. Things didn't look good. She was cold, barely breathing, her heartbeat was faint even considering the size of her. I was worried and very scared. I called Father Yuri, the priest at my church. I wanted him to come and give her last rites, or whatever it is that the Orthodox do when an innocent thing is destroyed by cynicism. He came. I woke up.

I am moving to Corvallis in four months. I am leaving Seattle because if I stay here, I will be stretched until I tear. There are too many people, too many lives that are so important. Too many things that I can’t say no to, and have no desire to say no to. Too many people who I care so deeply about that to turn them away or ignore them would be cold-hearted, even cruel.

I am moving away because I am halfway through a desert and it will take all of my energy to make it back to damp. Where I am now, with the people I have surrounded myself by, to take the energy I give to them for myself would be wrong. The only honorable thing to do, as far as my sun-stroked brain can tell, is to remove myself from the equation. They will be fine without me. They will survive. God will provide them with pillars far sturdier than I.

I might be running away from my problems, like my brother before me. Or, I might be metaphysically joining a monastery for a time, like my father before me. In any case, I am a desert mouse in the wilderness, a whisper in a hurricane, a puff of steam from the dryer vent, a trickle of water across the pavement of a parking lot. Any meaning that I have must be proscribed to me. I have none on my own.

A Prayer of Sorts

The problem I'm having is predominately one of trust. Some may trust in horses, and some may trust in chariots, but we will trust in the name of our God. See, the thing is, there's a lot of people throwing the name of my God around, and I'm not sure which one is real. I must trust someone or something. It's easy to say "Trust that God will show you the truth." But in what fashion?

Some may trust in signs and wonders.

I was raised to understand that God revealed himself through signs and wonders, miracles and visions, tongues and prophesies. Then, something happened. It is a wicked and perverse generation that seeks after a sign. Damn straight it is. Not that signs and wonders are out of the question. It's simply that I'm not really looking for one, and I quite frankly don't really trust them. I've known too many people who have heard a voice from heaven tell them that they would end up marrying a certain person, and two years later they barely interact with said person. I can think of three off the top of my head.

Some may trust in reason.

One of my professors expressed a dislike for the term "post-modern" he preferred to call it "late-modern." I think I'm with him on that. One of the core tenants of modernity is that logic and reason can explain everything, and therefore we must use our reason to find truth. Post-modernity, as far as I can tell, basically says the same thing. It just admits that reason is subjective. Then, it takes the very modern jump to claim that truth must also be subjective. Modernity signaled the marriage of reason/logic/rationalism and truth. True "post-modernity" would signal its divorce. Thus far, it has not.

I have known many smart people, much smarter than I am, who have used their reason to come to the conclusion that God exists and that they should be Christians. Not only Christians, but Neo-Calvinist, double-predestination, reformed, non-denominational, evangelical, pre-millennial, Christians.

I have also known many smart people, much smarter than I am, who have used their reason to come to the conclusion that God does not exist, and even if he did, nobody would be able to be so certain of their doctrine to choose from any of the major world religions.

I have a very hard time following my own reason. I am, for better or worse, a bit of a mystic (I wonder how many times I've typed that phrase). I have seen what happens when I let my mind take control and figure out the world. It ain't pretty. That's not true, it's very pretty. It's also very false, and it collapses under the slightest of pressure.

I once sat at a coffee shop with a friend. She said to me, "I don't like theology. I don't need someone else to tell me what the scriptures mean. I can figure it out for myself." This is an attitude that I have heard many times before. I cannot agree, and I cannot condemn. I just can't do that. I can't. I know that the right combination of proof-texts and cross-references can produce a Frankenstein's Monster of a faith. And I am also quite aware of my own predispositions for the mad sciences and zombification.

Some may trust in tradition.

Most of the conversation within protestant circles regarding the correct interpretation of scripture are actually arguments from varying traditions of scriptural interpretation. The Wesleyans and the Calvinists have been going at it for a while now, and while the scholars of said traditions are well aware of the nature of their arguments, the kids in the halls of the high school think that they're just arguing about the Bible.

Some people will say that we choose traditions based on what "makes sense" to us. The argument from reason again. But, the thing is, most of this stuff makes sense to me, except for when it doesn't. Every tradition has parts of it that make perfect sense, and parts of it that any believer must take... well... on faith. It takes a lot of faith just to believe that Christ died and rose again. This is not a rational thing, belief. Perhaps that's why it's so intertwined with love.

Ever since Luther, much of protestant tradition has been based on rationality and reason. We've been trying for the past 500 years to figure out what God is trying to say to us. And, every time our scholar/priests disagree on a point of doctrine, we solve the problem quite simply. We split and anathematize. Everyone but us is going to Hell! The more mystical protestant traditions have mostly fizzled out or schismed into cults, which then fizzle out or explode in a blaze of glory.

My main problem with every tradition is that they claim to be inspired by God. Every tradition has stories of direct (and sometimes not so direct) revelation from God as to the Truth of their tradition. And yet, they disagree so heartily. If this is the work of God, then he must be playing at some game that I simply do not understand. That's actually quite likely.

But I will trust in the name of my God.

I believe in one God, the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth, and of all things visible and invisible;
And in one Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of God, the Only-begotten, Begotten of the Father before all ages, Light of Light, True God of True God, Begotten, not made; of one essence with the Father, by whom all things were made: Who for us men and for our salvation came down from heaven, and was incarnate of the Holy Spirit and the Virgin Mary, and became a man;
And was crucified also for us under Pontius Pilate, and suffered and was buried;
And the third day He rose again, according to the Scriptures;
And ascended into heaven, and sits at the right hand of the Father;
And He shall come again with glory to judge the living and the dead, Whose kingdom shall have no end.
And I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, and Giver of Life, Who proceeds from the Father, Who with the Father and the Son together is worshiped and glorified, Who spoke by the Prophets;
And I believe in one, holy, catholic, and apostolic Church.
I acknowledge one Baptism for the remission of sins.
I look for the Resurrection of the dead,
And the Life of the world to come.
Amen.

That's the Creed. The problem of double-procession notwithstanding, all Christians worldwide would agree with this (in theory). Right now, this and the Lord's Prayer are all I have.

I have a lot of thoughts about truth, and hope, and love, and reason, and comic books, and morality, and sex, and joy, and addiction. And I talk a lot. But, right now I am certain of very little. I am confused, and I am frustrated, and I am very very afraid.

I shared my recent foray into orthodoxy with a missionary friend last week. She said that she was "pleasantly surprised." I was pleasantly surprised by her pleasant surprise. She said that it sounded like I was entering into this thing with an attitude of freedom, that I was seeking for truth, whereas before I was pushing on in my spiritual life because I needed to be better, because of my guilt. Very astute observation. She said that she hoped that I would eventually be at a place where I could put my trust in Christ alone, regardless of tradition, reason, what have you.

I would love to do that. I truly truly would.

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.

Amen.


Lord have mercy.

Anatomy of a Wave

It's all so confused, up here in my brain. I don't know who to trust, you see, and I'm so very trusting. So I trusted you. And, then you go and say what you say for your own reasons, unknown to me in every way. And you asked what was wrong, and I told you. And you were much afraid. And I didn't understand why you wanted to leave.

But, I understand perfectly you see. Because, it's all so confused up here. Here in my brain. With all the thoughts and emotions, mixing like sand and water clearly labeled in the panels Bottomless Belly Button. I'll take the time to understand the ciphers in the liturgy, but comic books no matter how long are not theology. Usually.

And, I trusted you with the money. And you trusted that I would come back. But, I'm not. And you understand. And you want me to explain. I'll Skype with you and drop hints about my shift in religion, but you will not catch them. You are only in high school after all.

Then, you have trusted me with very little. And yet I have found a way to betray that very little trust. I was crazy, lonely, confused. And I kept you up far past your bedtime too many nights in a row. And I can't explain to you why I go where I go, and you obviously will not be following. But, I still hope that you will anyway because your eyes are like diamonds, how they cut so cold. And the beauty about you makes me wonder if angels, theraflu or otherwise, have halos like yours.

And I was right about objectivism. Objectively speaking. And, I will only walk through that door if I'm sure that I won't be walking back. But I can never be sure of anything, least of all myself. And I trust that I trust too much. And I know that you trust no one, especially since they put you in jail for halibut, for halibut's sake.

So I'll meet you for coffee and I'll tell you to take a nap and you'll invite me to get a drink. You talk, and I talk, and the pieces come back together. And the sand falls through the sieve. No, it's an hourglass. And the wave retreats back into the ocean. And I trust that it will come back out again. But in the meantime, will you hold my hand for a minute? Listen to me breathe? I would like to be cut by your diamonds and engulfed by your halo. But, I understand if you need to walk away. These waves are vaguely terrifying, after all.

Car Shopping / Church Hopping -or- 1,500 Words on ?

Recently I've been doing a lot of writing and talking about why I'm interested in Orthodoxy. I was also lucky enough to make a new friend who doesn't know me very well, but is interested in talking about theological things nonetheless (at least I think she is, I may be subjecting her to regular torment, I have no idea). I wrote a very long e-mail to a different entity that she gave a read over and some feedback. This is what she said:

The only thing I would point out in both reading your argument and in hearing your perspective before, is that it seems almost like when it comes to religion you are shopping for a car. You have a list of requirements (valid ones) that you deem important to a religion and have looked thoroughly into all of the Christian denominations in order to find what meets all you requirements. I guess this is not inherently bad but it differs from someone trying to find "what is".
"These things are important to me therefore I will find the car that meets these requirements" is different than "which cars are actually at the dealership and available for me to buy". Really this is a weak metaphor to get the point across that I'm trying to make but I think it largely has to do with studying scripture. I do see your point though in accepting the need for tradition and history, due to the fact that relying on just yourself to figure out the mysteries of God would be unwise. Community with fellow believers is essential to any kind of religious growth.

I see what she is saying, and I am worried, because it's kind of true. I mean... to a certain extent we all believe what we want to believe. We have our own reasons for it, but at the end of the day even the beliefs that we hate but believe nonetheless are usually held because without them one of our fundamental convictions falls apart. That's confusing. Allow me to give an example. For instance, I may believe in eternal damnation for those who have never heard the scriptures. I may hate this belief, it may make me uncomfortable, but if I am staunch Calvinist, then I must hold to this uncomfortable belief or else risk the legitimacy of my entire belief system. See what I mean?

No thing that can be called belief, especially in regards to the unknowable divine, is predicated on any kind of irrefutable evidence or logic. They are based on faith. I'm not trying to demean faith, beliefs, or anything like that. I am a little post-modern after all (doing my damndest to turn pre-modern), and I am a bit of a mystic.

I do believe in the image and likeness of God inherent in every human being. I believe also that water seeks it's own level. Which is to say that the image of God in us seeks after God. And, just as one beetle recognizes another, the image of God within us recognizes God in the world. I believe this because I must (to wit, if I didn't my entire worldview would fall apart completely).

This attraction of reflected divinity towards ultimate divinity is the one "objective" (I can't believe I just used that word, I'm so sorry Dr. Neuhouser) thing that I believe the faithful can claim. Of course, since it's an experienced thing, unmeasured and irreducible, technically it's subjective.

I guess what I'm doing here is trying to boil down my beliefs to the most fundamental parts. I believe, at the center of it all, that God exists, that we are made in God's image, and that we are therefore drawn towards God. I also believe that Jesus Christ truly is the Son of God. That he possessed two natures. I believe in the Holy Trinity. I believe in the authority of the Holy Scriptures. That they are "profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness."

I guess that the big change in me over the past six or seven months is that I no longer believe that they are sufficient for doctrine, reproof, correction and instruction in righteousness. I have seen, rather personally, some of the dangers of jumping off the foundation of tradition and figuring it out yourself. I'll try not to get too melodramatic here, but faith divorced from tradition can altogether too easily lead to something like this.

I believe that religion and salvation are both things that are created through the synergy (a word that Greek theologians used long before it became a business buzzword) of God and humanity. Christ says "Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and open the door I will come in." Humans are part of the creative processes of God. Faith without works is dead, after all. There is some human responsibility in this whole religion thing, and it cannot be denied. Being a very ecumenical sunofagun, I'm kind of of the opinion that pretty much everybody has at least something right, and that they probably have something right that I have wrong.

This conviction that I'm about to put online forever may be my undoing one day, but I am young and reckless. I do not believe that I will ever be able to tell another Christian that they are wrong with complete certainty. I will always, always, always have doubts and qualifiers. I will probably never be able to tell another human being that they are wrong with complete certainty.

This conviction is, by nature, anti-religious. Religion is all about having the absolute answer. I don't think I'll ever find that.

And yet, here I am trying to pick a religion. Oy vey.

It's really complicated. This little beetle here who tries, and often fails, to seek after God has recognized many other little beetles from as many denominations as exist. I have seen antennae sprouting out of Baptists and Pentecostals educated heads. I have seen delicate wings softly tucked into Catholics and Orthodox traditional priestly robes. I risk heresy when I say that I have seen the distinctly beetle-like scurrying of those who call themselves Atheists, Buddhists, and Muslims. I cannot not see the Imago Dei. I cannot deny when I see God, if only in a reflection.

So then the question becomes, what is best? When there is so much good to choose from, the question must become, which is the best? Which of these available choices contain the most synergy between God and humanity? Which of these points to the most truth? Which of these turns out Christians who do the most good in their daily lives? Which of these will encourage the most love for my God and for my neighbor?

For me, the strongest factor in this whole decision of traditional validity is one of trust. Who do I trust the most as my teachers? It is the question underlying all of the questions in the previous paragraph. My experience has been that most beetles have something to teach me, even if I disagree with them almost entirely. So, why do I feel like I can trust these old, crusty, bearded beetles? Why not go for the young, excited, manly beetles?

What draws you to Orthodoxy, Tyson?

It's a very simple question.

I don't know.

I haven't got words for it. I don't know if words could really do it justice.

It's not a sensation, although I feel it. It's not an idea, although I think about it. It's... (really frustrating for a man who takes pride in his wordsmithery to be unable to describe something) divine.

I can only call it divine. It's truth and beauty and love and hope and longing and comfort and peace and a constant incentive towards higher things. It's undeniable and irresistible. It's larger than the ocean and brighter than the sun. It's louder than a hurricane and more beautiful than a symphony. It's more than words can describe and any approximation is about as close as a child's drawing of the stars in comparison to the night sky.

Somebody said, "Eventually all of our theology must become poetry." I am no poet, and I am no Theologian.  I am a confused, frustrated, and often lonely little beetle who is trying so very hard, to do my utmost for his highest. I don't want to pick a religion like I'd pick a car. Then again, how many cars have you ever had a mystical experience with?

I am drawn to Orthodoxy because I see an undeniable truth in it. I could not abandon it now, even if I tried.

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God have mercy on me, a sinner.

I just want to do the right thing.