I am being matured. I really dislike it. But sometimes you do what you know God is telling you to do. Even if it's not glamorous. Even if it doesn't look practical. Even if He doesn't confirm every step along the way with miraculous signs and wonders.
We know that it's "a wicked and perverse generation that seeks after a sign," but we do it all the time anyway.
I sat at my piano last night and realized that my ability to love God is based wholly in my understanding of His love for me. I love Him "because He first loved us." So if my only understanding of God's love is His saving grace, then I will only love Him enough to be saved. Loving God more means coming to a revelation of how much more He loves me (first). It's a lovely thought that I put to a mediocre chord progression.
And then I pulled out the old Mozart Urtext I used to frequent. I stared at the pages of pieces I used to perform and could not begin to imagine how I must have done it. People sometimes ask about your biggest regret, and I could never really think of one until last night. My life's biggest regret is that I left ten+ years of training to rot. Maybe it wasn't God's plan, and maybe it is for the best, and maybe that's a really worldly biggest regret ... but I'm really unhappy with myself for it.
So there. It's not prose (except, perhaps, for that bit of intentional alliteration), but today I'm tired of prose. I'm tired of sensual language and passionate declarations that do nothing more than make for good reading. I'm tired of spewing my spirit in HTML and considering it satisfied.
Tomorrow I'll probably disagree.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Monday, February 25, 2008
eternity in Your voice
I sit down and pull a blanket over my head and I have so much to say. I wrap my toes around the edge of the wooden bed frame and let my forehead thump against the prayer map stapled to the wall. The roledex of regular petitions and prayer requests spins through my head and none of it feels like Your presence so I wait.
I wait and I struggle to pin down my wandering mind. I listen for Your voice and then I start to think about my brother. I resume listening for Your voice and I start thinking about the worship team. I force myself to listen for Your voice and I start to think about the student ministry. And there's so much there to think on that I stray a bit until You call me back.
And I start to wonder why You always seem to wait until I'm not listening to speak to me, and then You speak to me.
And all it takes is five words from You and I am reborn.
The sound of Your voice sends a wave of peace rolling through me and I can feel my spirit breathe You in. Five words from You is all it takes to free me from myself and from this world. Five words from You puts eternity in order again in my heart, and I am released from a burden I didn't even know I carried.
I wait and I struggle to pin down my wandering mind. I listen for Your voice and then I start to think about my brother. I resume listening for Your voice and I start thinking about the worship team. I force myself to listen for Your voice and I start to think about the student ministry. And there's so much there to think on that I stray a bit until You call me back.
And I start to wonder why You always seem to wait until I'm not listening to speak to me, and then You speak to me.
And all it takes is five words from You and I am reborn.
The sound of Your voice sends a wave of peace rolling through me and I can feel my spirit breathe You in. Five words from You is all it takes to free me from myself and from this world. Five words from You puts eternity in order again in my heart, and I am released from a burden I didn't even know I carried.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
chef boyardee with a plastic fork
If I close my eyes right now, all I hear is the gentle, rhythmic hum of the 40-inch printer in the corner of the office.
The silence is sterile.
My black, square computer monitor sits on its black, square base on the black, square desk. Two black, square speakers adorn its shoulders, as it enjoys its prominence over the black, square phone; the black, square stapler; and the black, square inbox.
Just yesterday it seemed that the bright pink, potted flower was smiling at me. Just yesterday it seemed stronger than me, a bearer of hope. Today it hates me. Today it begs me to bring it home or to church or anywhere but here. So I pour a little of my water around its base and think, as loudly as I can, "Not a chance." Misery loves company after all, and we're in this together ... Yes, that's self-centered of me, but you're a house plant.
Just yesterday it seemed I was eternal. Just yesterday it seemed we were partnering with Holy Spirit to breathe fire into a handful of teenagers, to bring about His purposes for the last five seconds of lifeasweknowit, to renew ourselves, to tear down strongholds. Today eternity has paused in order to allow me to suffer the black square.
So here I sit. With a plastic tub of microwaved mac 'n cheese, a plastic fork, and a plastic cup of room temperature drinking water. Here I sit, trapped by everything temporal, everything fading, everything mundane. Here I sit with a dozen lasting, fascinating things I could be doing, counting down the last 20 minutes of a lunch break that hasn't been a break from anything I'd like a break from.
The silence is sterile.
My black, square computer monitor sits on its black, square base on the black, square desk. Two black, square speakers adorn its shoulders, as it enjoys its prominence over the black, square phone; the black, square stapler; and the black, square inbox.
Just yesterday it seemed that the bright pink, potted flower was smiling at me. Just yesterday it seemed stronger than me, a bearer of hope. Today it hates me. Today it begs me to bring it home or to church or anywhere but here. So I pour a little of my water around its base and think, as loudly as I can, "Not a chance." Misery loves company after all, and we're in this together ... Yes, that's self-centered of me, but you're a house plant.
Just yesterday it seemed I was eternal. Just yesterday it seemed we were partnering with Holy Spirit to breathe fire into a handful of teenagers, to bring about His purposes for the last five seconds of lifeasweknowit, to renew ourselves, to tear down strongholds. Today eternity has paused in order to allow me to suffer the black square.
So here I sit. With a plastic tub of microwaved mac 'n cheese, a plastic fork, and a plastic cup of room temperature drinking water. Here I sit, trapped by everything temporal, everything fading, everything mundane. Here I sit with a dozen lasting, fascinating things I could be doing, counting down the last 20 minutes of a lunch break that hasn't been a break from anything I'd like a break from.
Friday, February 15, 2008
take off your shoes
Revelation 4:2-11
Immediately I was in the Spirit; and behold, a throne set in heaven, and One sat on the throne. And He who sat there was like a jasper and a sardius stone in appearance; and there was a rainbow around the throne, in appearance like an emerald.
Around the throne were 24 thrones, and on the thrones I saw 24 elders sitting, clothed in white robes; and they had crowns of gold on their heads.
And from the throne proceeded lightnings, thunderings, and voices. Seven lamps of fire were burning before the throne, which are the seven Spirits of God. Before the throne there was a sea of glass, like crystal. And in the midst of the throne, and around the throne, were four living creatures full of eyes in front and in back.
The cheap, dorm room lamp that hangs above my piano doesn't turn on anymore. It's probably the bulb, but I'm just as satisfied in the shadows.
So I sat in the darkest corner of our apartment. Alone. I sat in the black office chair with the kind of posture that only a decade of piano lessons can cultivate in a person's subconscious. I sat, eyes closed, and listened for eternity.
Eyes opened. Piano. The piano is not eternal, so I closed my eyes again. And listened. I reached out for the plastic keys that I knew were just in front of me and played the chord my fingers fell on. The only decision I had to make was whether to go to a minor third or up a fifth. My hands know the math that comes after the second measure. I don't remember what I chose.
I rock back and forth between two chords, there in the doorway, and He smiles at me. I feel the flame in His gaze and I want it. He waits for me. Two chords. Two chords is safe, and I can do it with my eyes closed without the risk of hitting an incorrect key.
Because right now He is utterly unapproachable. That throne is terrifying in its beauty, and the kind of love that waits for me in the center of it will consume me. I still want it, and He waits for me.
I glance down at my two chords and my stomach turns. I rock back and forth between pride and disobedience. Between apathy and false humility. Between selfishness and hatred. My feet, my shoes, my pant legs, are soaked through with mud. And He waits. I rock back and forth between the sea of crystal before Him and the stain on my walk. And I see Him waiting.
And I don't hear the notes I'm playing but I hope in that moment they're minor. Because I want to yell at Him. I want to make Him come out. I can't go in there! How can I go in there? Can't He see me? Can't He see where I've been? Can't He see the stain on my clothes? How can He call me in there like this? Doesn't He know I'll ruin it? I can't go in there!
And He waits. And I know that He knows. So I wipe my feet as best I can, add a third chord, and step out of the doorway. Eyes still closed I try to step lightly as though I can't feel clumps of filth landing softly on the floor beneath me. This is so embarrassing, but He knows. I want to be there and He knows and He waits so I go.
I add a fourth chord to complete the phrase and I run. I'm already in. I've already ruined His splendor. I've already burdened eternity with dirt it was never meant to endure. And I wonder if I'll survive. I wonder if He'll look at me when I get there. He can't look on sin. It can't stand in His presence and about the moment I'm sure I'll never endure Him I'm close enough to want nothing more than to try and then I'm there and all I can do is fall at His feet.
And He waits.
And I play, and I open my eyes. I'm playing in D, and as I turn to look behind me at mistake after mistake that I so boldly smeared all over Revelation 4 all I see are the last few, blood-red footprints fading to a pure, crystal finish.
Immediately I was in the Spirit; and behold, a throne set in heaven, and One sat on the throne. And He who sat there was like a jasper and a sardius stone in appearance; and there was a rainbow around the throne, in appearance like an emerald.
Around the throne were 24 thrones, and on the thrones I saw 24 elders sitting, clothed in white robes; and they had crowns of gold on their heads.
And from the throne proceeded lightnings, thunderings, and voices. Seven lamps of fire were burning before the throne, which are the seven Spirits of God. Before the throne there was a sea of glass, like crystal. And in the midst of the throne, and around the throne, were four living creatures full of eyes in front and in back.
The cheap, dorm room lamp that hangs above my piano doesn't turn on anymore. It's probably the bulb, but I'm just as satisfied in the shadows.
So I sat in the darkest corner of our apartment. Alone. I sat in the black office chair with the kind of posture that only a decade of piano lessons can cultivate in a person's subconscious. I sat, eyes closed, and listened for eternity.
Eyes opened. Piano. The piano is not eternal, so I closed my eyes again. And listened. I reached out for the plastic keys that I knew were just in front of me and played the chord my fingers fell on. The only decision I had to make was whether to go to a minor third or up a fifth. My hands know the math that comes after the second measure. I don't remember what I chose.
I rock back and forth between two chords, there in the doorway, and He smiles at me. I feel the flame in His gaze and I want it. He waits for me. Two chords. Two chords is safe, and I can do it with my eyes closed without the risk of hitting an incorrect key.
Because right now He is utterly unapproachable. That throne is terrifying in its beauty, and the kind of love that waits for me in the center of it will consume me. I still want it, and He waits for me.
I glance down at my two chords and my stomach turns. I rock back and forth between pride and disobedience. Between apathy and false humility. Between selfishness and hatred. My feet, my shoes, my pant legs, are soaked through with mud. And He waits. I rock back and forth between the sea of crystal before Him and the stain on my walk. And I see Him waiting.
And I don't hear the notes I'm playing but I hope in that moment they're minor. Because I want to yell at Him. I want to make Him come out. I can't go in there! How can I go in there? Can't He see me? Can't He see where I've been? Can't He see the stain on my clothes? How can He call me in there like this? Doesn't He know I'll ruin it? I can't go in there!
And He waits. And I know that He knows. So I wipe my feet as best I can, add a third chord, and step out of the doorway. Eyes still closed I try to step lightly as though I can't feel clumps of filth landing softly on the floor beneath me. This is so embarrassing, but He knows. I want to be there and He knows and He waits so I go.
I add a fourth chord to complete the phrase and I run. I'm already in. I've already ruined His splendor. I've already burdened eternity with dirt it was never meant to endure. And I wonder if I'll survive. I wonder if He'll look at me when I get there. He can't look on sin. It can't stand in His presence and about the moment I'm sure I'll never endure Him I'm close enough to want nothing more than to try and then I'm there and all I can do is fall at His feet.
And He waits.
And I play, and I open my eyes. I'm playing in D, and as I turn to look behind me at mistake after mistake that I so boldly smeared all over Revelation 4 all I see are the last few, blood-red footprints fading to a pure, crystal finish.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Sunday Night
We drove home.
It snowed the day before and got bitterly cold that day, so what was once a fresh matte now appeared hard and plastic. I stared out the passenger side window for 22 minutes, appalled at the fake snow and the time of day.
Sunday nights are difficult for people who were never meant to work desk jobs but have to because no one pays waitresses more than $3 an hour. And tips on lunch shifts don't make up the difference after college.
There are few cars on the road late on Sunday nights. The isolation and sense of impending doom can be overwhelming. The fake snow didn't help.
Street lights bled onto frozen intersections as dark building after dark building shuffled past my window, hoping I wouldn't see. And I didn't really see, until one seemed to cave in on itself a little.
The next one was fine.
The one after that quivered a bit as we drove past and probably collapsed as soon as it was out of sight.
The next one was fake. I don't know how I always thought it was real, but even glancing at it briefly in that moment, it screamed of everything temporal. Everything fleeting. It confessed it had lied to me for years and was really nothing more than a prop. What I once believed to be a piece of reality, one that would stand longer than myself, laughed at me for being so foolish. I was betrayed.
I couldn't see them, but I knew they were toppling. I knew we were leaving a wake of rubbish behind us because each one that fell left me feeling more exposed. I knew when a fresh batch of debris finally settled because I felt more eternal, and my heart in light of eternity is tiny. Each one reduced to rubble left me more alone with the Beginning and the End, and I groped to find a place somewhere in the middle.
One by one I'm sure they crumbled just as soon as I couldn't see them anymore.
It snowed the day before and got bitterly cold that day, so what was once a fresh matte now appeared hard and plastic. I stared out the passenger side window for 22 minutes, appalled at the fake snow and the time of day.
Sunday nights are difficult for people who were never meant to work desk jobs but have to because no one pays waitresses more than $3 an hour. And tips on lunch shifts don't make up the difference after college.
There are few cars on the road late on Sunday nights. The isolation and sense of impending doom can be overwhelming. The fake snow didn't help.
Street lights bled onto frozen intersections as dark building after dark building shuffled past my window, hoping I wouldn't see. And I didn't really see, until one seemed to cave in on itself a little.
The next one was fine.
The one after that quivered a bit as we drove past and probably collapsed as soon as it was out of sight.
The next one was fake. I don't know how I always thought it was real, but even glancing at it briefly in that moment, it screamed of everything temporal. Everything fleeting. It confessed it had lied to me for years and was really nothing more than a prop. What I once believed to be a piece of reality, one that would stand longer than myself, laughed at me for being so foolish. I was betrayed.
I couldn't see them, but I knew they were toppling. I knew we were leaving a wake of rubbish behind us because each one that fell left me feeling more exposed. I knew when a fresh batch of debris finally settled because I felt more eternal, and my heart in light of eternity is tiny. Each one reduced to rubble left me more alone with the Beginning and the End, and I groped to find a place somewhere in the middle.
One by one I'm sure they crumbled just as soon as I couldn't see them anymore.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
narnia
That's a lot of snow. CITW is cancelled for this evening, and the office is closing. I came to Panera to get some work done, and because I couldn't get into the parking lot at home because it hadn't been plowed. I think I need to leave Panera soon, though, or I'll be stuck here. Gotta keep moving ...
The Lord and I are doing better, in case you were worried. We had a nice talk last night. We took back some ground in China together too. It was like a little reunion.
So I'm going to go work on Switch stuff from home, and probably spend some time with my God, and probably zine a bit. Hooray for snow days - however delayed.
The Lord and I are doing better, in case you were worried. We had a nice talk last night. We took back some ground in China together too. It was like a little reunion.
So I'm going to go work on Switch stuff from home, and probably spend some time with my God, and probably zine a bit. Hooray for snow days - however delayed.
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
pardon me for just a moment
I'm so bored lately. (Which is not to say I have nothing to do, contrary to popular belief, so don't go making plans for me. Thanks.) I think that's why I haven't blogged in a few days.
I'm bored with my job. I'm bored with church innovation, and I'm bored with Vintage Christianity. I'm bored with the latest technology, and I'm bored with church leaders who don't think it's useful. I'm bored with church marketing. I'm bored with 21st-century Pharisees.
I'm bored with the self-righteousness of the western Church, and I'm bored with talking about it.
I'm bored with blogs and twits and Facebook. I'm bored with popular music and anti-popular popular music. I'm bored with Christian music.
I'm bored with skin-deep conviction and my own half-hearted worship. I'm bored with myself. I'm bored with spiritual apathy. That's right: I'm bored with apathy. I'm not even sure I know what that means. I'm bored with where I'm at. Let's just be perfectly honest: I am bored with my relationship with God.
Yep.
I was listening to a Corey Russel sermon (from two years ago) recently. Forty-five minutes later he prays Psalm 119, "Lord, turn away our eyes from looking at worthless things," and comments, "not even bad things, just worthless things." That made me uncomfortable, but I didn't do anything about it.
I got Misty Edwards' new CD yesterday. I know a lot of the tracks already from The Call and YouTube and the Limited Edition CDs from IHOP. I sat down at my piano last night to figure out a few chords. I sat and sang, "Finally I surrender," and suddenly felt like such a phony. No I don't; who am I kidding? I'd like to; I know I need to, but am I at this moment surrendering anything to God? No.
I'm bored with my emotions.
And it's my fault, I know. Because God is by no means boring. I've limited our relationship to business lately: the business of tithing, the business of worship, the business of student ministry. And the whole world becomes boring when I take God out of it.
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