Cool as Nails

The cool thing about writing is that sometimes you write a piece worth reading, something people might want to read. Yeah, that's cool. But the scary part is that occasionally, people will read it. When I think about it, this whole blogging thing actually scares the crap out of me. "Right," you might think, "keeping a blog open to the public, and advertising it on Facebook. You're clearly terrified." I know, I know. Writing, putting it (and myself) up for public inspection, and then professing a fear of vulnerability seems a little like posting pictures of yourself on MyFace and then telling everyone how ugly you think they are. But it's different.

Walter Smith said "there's nothing to writing. All you have to do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein." Bleeding out onto paper, that's exactly how it feels; and I haven't really gotten started (not recently, anyway... but I am poised and ready to start my Cosmo polemic... remember that?!). Ordinarily you would avoid doing something that makes you feel this nervous or insecure. I'm assuming it's like skydiving, spelunking, or a jalapeno eating contest; there has to be some sensation more powerful than fear or internal combustion that makes it worth it. Well, I'll let you know.

Love as Death

   So it's been a while since my last post. Over two years, in fact. This is pitiful and ironic, when I consider that I stopped writing at exactly the moment I should have begun to write more. Sometime in October of 2009, an acquaintance with absolutely zero knowledge of my interests or activities (at the time, I was writing a lot) approached me said something to the affect of "I could be wrong, but... I think God says He wants you to write." If that sounds weird to you... I understand. But read the biblical story of the annunciation. That is weird. And while I had every intention of writing more, somehow I immediately stopped doing it altogether. Maybe I was distracted, maybe I was discouraged, maybe a mandate from the Almighty was a little sobering; I don't think it really matters now. So I've got to begin somewhere, and it will feel awkward no matter what, so here goes.

   I've gone far in the last year. Literally. I've driven across country and I've also acquired more frequent flier miles than ever before. I've dared, I've scared, I've regretted, I've rejoiced; I've prayed, cursed, loved, hated, begrudged, forgiven; I've applied for jobs, been rejected, been subsequently devastated, then been promoted; I've watched people married and buried. I've learned to laugh a lot more.  I've failed to live up to my potential in some glaringly obvious ways. But I've also outgrown other confines I'd built for myself, bumping the ceilings of those limitations like Alice in Wonderland, shrinking to ten inches tall and then sprouting to nine feet in a matter of minutes.

   I wish I could say that I am better now than I was then, and be sure of it. But I'm not sure of that at all. And since we're on the subject of (un)certainty... since when do we get to be sure of anything?  Somehow this verse immediately springs to mind... not because I'm one who constantly has verses springing to mind (although I'd be better for it if I did), or because I read the Bible a lot (I don't read it often enough) ... but because this verse usually gives me trouble.

Hebrews 11:1 NOW FAITH is the assurance (the confirmation, the title deed) of the things [we] hope for, being the proof of things [we] do not see and the conviction of their reality [faith perceiving as real fact what is not revealed to the senses]. (Amplified Version)

and then I think of 1 Corinthians 13:13...

¹³And so faith, hope, love abide [faith--conviction and belief respecting man's relation to God and divine things; hope--joyful and confident expectation of eternal salvation; love--true affection for God and man, growing out of God's love for and in us], these three; but the greatest of these is love. (Amplified Version)

   Now it's Christmas time. The season of hope, and of faith in the God who is Love; the season that reminds us to rejoice in being loved, and in being enabled to love in return. Here's to hope, and faith, and love: those mysterious intangibles, the abilities that prove elusive to even the most evolved and erudite among us (how's that for alliteration). I say 'abilities' because to hope, to believe, to love, all these are actions of mind, of heart, sometimes of body, actions that require us to mobilize. But it is a different mobilization. I've learned more personally this year that this mobilization feels like immobilization, like paralysis at first. But it isn't paralysis. It is surrender: surrender to the transformative power of the mercy and holiness of an wondrous God. Learning to love like this is really uncomfortable. It feels like a death; for at its most powerful, to love is (necessarily, implicitly) to deny myself.

   Over the course of this year, I've become convinced that selfishness is the root of most evil. It may seem like an overstatement, but I think we'd be surprised at what we would find if we entered the minds of those who've hurt us the most. We would probably find overwhelming concern for their wants, their needs, their desires, consumed by thought of their own wounds and how to make those pains go away. Precious little planning devoted to ruining our lives or hurting us... because hurting others is just an incidental, inevitable outcome of selfishness. Selfishness is the ultimate evil, because selflessness is the ultimate love (John 15:13). I'll tell you what, I do not love my enemies. I have murderous tendencies, seriously. Some people say "I don't hate anyone, I just dislike them"; they're the people who couldn't hurt a fly. For what it's worth, I am not one of those people. And I could definitely put the hurt on a fly. Or a bad tipper. Or a mean-spirited, belligerent drunk. Or a power tripping cop. Or the cranky, mean old woman who tried to reprimand me for texting and driving even though I wasn't texting, I was changing the song on my iPod!!! Did I run her off the road? No. Did I want to? Absolutely. I convince myself that the few people I do hate are latent serial killers. It justifies my bloodlust. Anne Lamott says you can rest assured you've created God in your own image when it turns out He hates all the same people you do. I try to convince Him to hate them, or at least to allow them to be in some sort of at-fault car accident that their insurance doesn't cover. So far I can't convince Him to hate anyone. I always know that I'm wrong in my hate. I'll be very honest with you, though... knowing that God loves them should be a powerful motivator for me to learn to love them, but it isn't. It's just upsetting. See? Do you see the wickedness? I've got lots of it. But there is still a merciful blessing in this knowledge of my shortcomings, because knowing that I fail should always mean that I am more merciful to the failings of others. So here's to being merciful, and to not hating people. God's changing me, as much as I let Him.

   But seriously, don't forget to tip your waitress.

Love's Labour's Lost to Lust

I want to write a monthly post in the form of a polemic against Cosmo Magazine... This was inspired by a casual bored skimming of the magazine, the most intellectually and morally bankrupt, slime-depositing skim of my life. I'm pretty convinced that Cosmopolitan magazine is symbolic of so much that is wrong with our culture. Who knows if I'll be able to keep it up month after month, or if I'll even need to? I suspect I might find that they've a shallow bag of tricks and recycled material not worth responding to... nevertheless I'm curious to see what comes of it.

Curious? Let me know if this is something interesting to you, or pretty irrelevant?

Read the "How Cosmo Changed the World" blurb from their website: 

Back in the 60's, young single women were enjoying a new level of freedom. For the first time, they were beginning to bust their butts in formerly male-dominated fields and explore premarital sex. But the phenomenon was still so new that no one was really talking about it.... Enter Helen Gurley Brown. In 1962, the just-married copywriter penned Sex and the Single Girl, a fictional book about a swinging singleton who was leading this new kind of life. Not only did the book tell women they didn't need a man to be happy, but it also encouraged them to enjoy sex with whomever they damn well pleased- without guilt.

Read the whole article on How Cosmo Destroyed the World here.
...This is just the tip of the smutberg.

Self Control, the Vegetable of the Spirit

Ask any server, and they're guaranteed to come up with at least a couple of times when they wanted a free pass to kill a customer for being exceptionally rude and difficult. However, I've always taken pride in the fact that I have never once lost my cool with a patron. The ruder they become, the kinder I get. Sort of a "kill them with kindness" routine. Usually it works quite well. However, this particular customer made my blood boil. His manner was condescending, obstinate, and uncooperative. My usual M.O. of 'heaping hot coals' in retaliatory turn-the-other-cheekiness didn't quite slake my escalating bloodthirst; my saccharine smile belied my intense desire to spill scalding soup in his lap. Despite my indignance, I didn't betray a single emotion other than compliance in the spirit of customer-is-always-rightitude. On my drive home that night I marveled at my own patience in that encounter.


My self adulation continued until I noticed that my heart was pounding and my fury was coming back... I felt anything but patient and peaceful. And then I wondered: does it count as patience if I have a myriad of angry and borderline murderous thoughts toward this person? Does it count as patience if I'm really only restraining myself? Is acting patient when I'm not feeling patient the same as tithing when I don't want to... begrudgingly obeying in those moments when I can think of a thousand things I would rather be doing with the money? Oh yeah, I'm a joyful giver... most of the time. And until now, I'd thought I was becoming quite a patient individual, a marvelous demonstration of that fruit of the Spirit... then it hit me. I wasn't being patient. I was having Self Control, which is like the younger, less experienced, more volatile sibling of Patience. If I had been patient, my indignation wouldn't have flared up in the first place. I certainly don't disparage self control because I believe that one of the hardest things to master is yourself... but at the same time, I think self-control is like anger management. It doesn't get rid of the problem, it just shows you how to live with your impulses. Patience, it seems, is more of a transformational fruit. It is a testament to the work of the Spirit throughout your innermost being. If I'd been patient... maybe I wouldn't have been angered by this customer at all. Self control is dandy, like anger management. But I think anger elimination is more favorable. Rather than putting a lid on the boiling pot, I'd rather just extinguish that flame of indignation and stung pride. The Lord isn't slow to show his anger. He is slow to anger in the first place. I want that trait! 


And I want to call self-control the vegetable of the spirit. I know it's probably wrong on all counts, literarily and spiritually and theologically... but it just isn't quite as sweet as the other fruits. Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness... oh, and self-control, for all those times when you can't quite get a grip on the other eight fruits. Here, have a carrot.