thoughts

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.

opposite way

I think I like the title track better, but I could only find a clip of it:

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.

Lex's Beauty Tips, Issue 1

For that I-just-got-out-of-my-convertible hair:

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.

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.

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.

Things are weird. I don't know when I'm going to blog. And I don't know if it's deliberate or not.

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.

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.

check me out

I'm not slacking off. I was so gonna post this last night, but Blogger's scheduled outages are messing with me.

I did this. We'll see if anything comes of it. Things tend to not come of this kind of thing (follow that?) for me, but maybe this will be different. Whatever I do should prosper, eh?

That's about it. I've been working my butt off lately and trying to finish a zine a month behind schedule on top of it, so I really don't have anything exciting to report. I watched Luther again last night while I was zining (zeen-ing), which is really only exciting if you're me.

Every time I watch Luther now, though, I think about how I need to get a good biography on Jonathan Hus. I usually think on that for a minute and then start to daydream about getting one on Jean d'Arc too.

Timothy had a cool revelation last night while reading his Bible. He said he was going to blog it, so if you're looking for good content, check him out.

productivity is a relative term

I got sucked into a web of URL links yesterday evening. Now I really want one of these bags:

Alchemy Goods makes bags and wallets (and zipper pulls) out of recycled bicycle material. This one is recycled inner tubes (and a recycled seatbelt, which is not from a bicycle, but that's okay). Their stuff's a little pricey, but it's made in the USA.

I'm also eyeballing one of these monster coin purses from stitchpixie. Word has it they're the perfect size for iPod Nanos too.

Cuuuuuuute. And more in my price range than the bag.

I'm not really one for jewelry, but handmade julz makes some pretty snappy stuff. I dig 'em, but I'd save my allowance for the bag first.

Shawn Parks makes some nifty bags too. He does a couple different sizes, and he makes them out of that orange fencing that is supposed to keep you out of construction sites ... or is it snow fencing? They're cool bags either way.

When we have kids someday, they'll be decked out in lots of homemade gear, but probably this stuff too:


From sky&boat. They make a cute brontosaurus one too.

And is anybody else on Twitter? I'd been avoiding it for months, but I hear more and more about it every day. I set up my cell phone this morning. Let me know if you're rockin' it so we can hook up.

That is all.

bell

Rob Bell is the founding pastor at Mars Hill Church in Grand Rapids, MI (not Seattle). I just read some brief Q&A with him and was impressed.

Asked about the war ("Why do you think this has become so politically divisive?"):

I think that ... a lot of the American way was life, liberty, freedom and democracy ... But when the American way becomes addicted to comfort, and this comfort is dependent on a particular natural resource which we cannot provide enough of, we literally wage war to support our comfort and addiction.

When asked about his alternative:

There is an absolutely mind-blowing passage in Isaiah 19 where God calls Egypt His son and Assyria His beloved. Egypt and Assyira were the arch-enemies of Israel. Today, that passage would literally be "Taliban My son, Al-Qaeda My beloved." There's also this amazing metaphor where Joshua's going into battle, and he meets an angel of the Lord. Joshua asks whose side the angel is on, and the angel says, "Neither."

So should Christians be politically active?

We refer to ourselves as aggressively nonpartisan ... I don't know if you would say that's political or not, but if Jesus comes to town and things don't get better, then we have to ask some hard questions.

About the western Church:

I think the problem is that when people say "church," many mean religious goods and services where you come and there's a nice inspiring talk, good coffee in the back, snappy music and everything ends up fine. For us, if you can resolve the sermon in the course of the church service, then the sermon has failed. The only way to resolve the church service you just experienced, and specifically the sermon, is that you're going to have to go and wrestle with it and then live it out.

"By being innovative you face critics. How do you deal with this?"

There are around a billion people in the world who don't have clean drinking water, and 46 million Americans don't have health care. That means if they get sick, they don't have anywhere to go. Half of the world, 3 billion people, live on less than two American dollars a day, so the world is an emergency. It's an absolute crisis, and when followers of Jesus can think of nothing better to do with their time than to pick apart and shred to pieces the work of other followers of Jesus who are trying to do something about the world, that's tragic, and I don't owe those people anything.

Well said.

Kaitlyn's going to live!

We got to share in the 1 - year banquet festivities for Kaitlyn Jane Krauss. Grandma Jane explained everything for two hours, only part of which involved the "why?" of the event. Apparently the first birthday is a big deal in China due to high infant mortality rates. Everyone assumes, though, if you make it to One, you're set. Way to go Kaitlyn!

The event began with everyone trying to pick up three stacked peanuts with their chopsticks:

Leeroy's a show-off. : )

Then we ate strange foods:

Mike Ingham even ate the strange food's eyeball:



Kaitlyn didn't eat strange food, but she's cute:



Then we ate more food. (Sorry about the chewing picture, Loretta.)

And Grandma Jane explained everything from holiday tradition to toasting to how to eat rice. It was awesome.

Then we opened presents. Aunty Grace got Kaitlyn a very tactile book. Grandpa Mike, as shown below, is appalled at "Dad's" scruffy face.

Then Uncle Timmy made funny faces and took pictures:

It was fun.

spitting toothpaste everywhere

Pajama shorts and a DIY, Revolution tshirt. Hair completely out of place. Reading Revelation 4 off the bathroom mirror while I brush my teeth before bed.

The bathroom sink didn't get officially cleaned this past weekend. I need to do that still. But not now. One toothbrush waits in the jar on one corner. I'm weeks behind on getting new toothbrushes. Add that to the mental Walgreen's shopping list. The hand soap thing is messy. How does it get soap all over it? Who on earth is having such a problem operating the little plastic pump? Even with St. Ives standing guard over it, it's messy.

St. Ives is the patron saint of at least semi-moist skin this winter. I wonder where he's been all my life, or at least every winter of my life. I tend to be skeptical about the formulas for those types of things. I'm convinced that all lotions are the same, all shampoos are the same, all toothpastes are the same - except for the color and the fragrance - they just put different things on the packaging to make us think we have choices.

This particular breed of St. Ives claims to be some serious, medically renowned "mineral" breed. It's so professional they didn't put pretty pictures on the bottle; they put a red plus sign and a lot of italic print. Skeptic though I may be, it has been the only thing that's worked - ever.

And as I continued my boring stream-of-consciousness, making sure to get my back molars scrubbed really well, my husband broke in by gently pumping just a dab of Dr. St. Ives, Mineral Man onto the tip of his right index finger.

I stopped wondering about the purity of minerals in the alps and started wondering about my husband, still waging war on plaque that might be seeking shelter in the back of my mouth, as he carefully divided the dab in half with his other index finger. As I pondered the many places such a small dab of healing ointment might be useful - temples, knuckles, toes, elbows - he abruptly dashed the serenity of evening ritual by plunging his right index finger into his right nostril.

I managed to prevent my toothbrush from diving down my throat, but not without choking a bit on either a gasp or a laugh and letting go of a short spray of toothpaste.

He turned to me as though somehow shocked at my reaction, and, maintaining eye contact, proceeded to twist his finger back and forth. Lowering my toothbrush to the sink, I gasped for breath as he calmly defended himself, "What?! Dry skin!" I nodded and, in the absence of that breath I'd been looking for, mouthed, "I know."

Without a moment's hesitation his left index finger, armed with a particular half-dab of lotion, followed suit and he cried out, "How else am I supposed to get minerals to my brain, Lex?!" I tried to brace myself on the sink without dropping my toothbrush, gasp for air and clutch my upper abdomen area as he insisted, "Huh?! How?!"

He left, brain full of fresh, straight-from-the-Alps minerals. I recovered, and wiped off the wall. Maybe you had to be there.

Your Love is Everything

This song has been ministering to me in ways I don't necessarily care to describe right now.

we make hoodies

We were home last Saturday evening. I finished a hoodie I was working on. It's one of two like it in the world. The first one's mine, this one's for sale ($40). It's currently on display in the Switch cafe. It's a Small; I'll make a Medium next unless someone wears a Large and really wants one.

I don't know why that picture is so yellow.

Detail.

Timothy got inspired. Initially he asked me to make him a Jesus Heals Emo hoodie, but either he didn't want to wait, or he wanted something completely original, or he was bored. He made one himself:

It's a pleseosaur.

repentance?

Pride has also been known to mask itself as false humility, which tends to lead to false repentance. I don't think people always mean for false humility to be false, though. We really want to be humble because we know we're supposed to be, but deep down I wonder how many of us really want to be humble. I'm learning that unintentionally false humility is best exposed via false repentance.

My pastor can be mean. We were talking a couple weeks ago about my developing prayer life and some challenges hitting me in the face. "You know what you need ..." he trailed off as he approached the bookshelf.

Crystal Christianity is an edited collection of a series of sermons by a one Charles Finney. I believe the sermons were called Lectures to Professing Christians; they are those that Pastor Hoban affectionately refers to as the ones that will make you "wonder if you're saved or not." I think I understand his heart in giving me the book, but it was also a little mean. The way my mother-in-law will put lavender oil on an open wound and calmly reply to cries of agony with, "Well that's just 'cause you're toxic, dear."

That's right, it's like lavender oil on an open wound. Except it smells dusty, not flowery.

I read the first chapter and resisted the entire thing until Holy Spirit asked me what passage of scripture I was basing my rebuttal on and I couldn't come up with one.

Finney starts in 2 Corinthians 7:10 (KJV), "For godly sorrow worketh repentance to salvation not to be repented of: but the sorrow of the world worketh death." He goes on to write 30 scathing pages about how repentance that doesn't free you from the desire to repeat the sin isn't repentance at all.

True repentance is "not to be repented of." False repentance is motivated by fear, not love. False repentance is when we realize we've messed up, fear God, and apologize in order to absolve ourselves of punishment. False repentance is based in selfishness, because we are concerned about our own well-being, not love.

I'd always heard that if you struggled with something before you were saved, the devil will continue to tempt you in that same area. It's easier to pick open a scab than make a new wound, so he'll do that. While that makes sense to me, I couldn't come up with scripture on it.

And the more I thought about it I realized I didn't need scripture on it because being tempted with evil, and feeling the urge or inclination to give into that temptation are wholly different. Being tempted is not sin, disobedience is sin.

Finney writes that true repentance will cause a person to abhor the behavior repented of. It doesn't mean the temptation will never arise again - in fact probably the opposite, because how can you disdain something that never crosses your path again?

Pride makes me self-motivated and I repent for my disobedience not because I love God and regret having hurt Him, but because I love me and regret facing a sentence for my sin.

Which means I need God to enable me to truly repent because it can't be manufactured. I need to read the Word until my mind is renewed and ask Him to open my eyes, or I'll never be able to really repent of anything.

fear of man

(My pride has been surfacing lately, so I'm publicly exposing it to scare it away.)

Pride also disguises itself as the fear of man, which in turn can disguise itself as diligence, devotion, work ethic, etc. Case in point:

I have always done well. At everything. My mother, though far from a Bible-thumper, was a spiritual warrior during my childhood. She didn't know the verse, but she seemed to understand the power of her words (or she was just a biased woman with her first born). She was constantly talking to me and about me, regarding how smart and talented I am and how I can do anything I want to do very well.

And so it was. I always got excellent grades in school. I was usually relatively well behaved (or sneaky enough not to get caught and without the conviction of the Spirit of God). I was a good pianist, a good bicycle mechanic, a good writer, a decent photographer, etc. I got the scholarships, set the grade curves, breezed through the hard roles, sat first chair or marched center snare, had the coolest boyfriend, and it was easy. I am good at what I do, whatever that is, and everyone stinkin' knows it.

Now it suddenly seems everything is going poorly. It seems, if I were to live by sight, that's I'm doing a mediocre to downright terrible job at just about everything, and there's nothing I can do about it, and everyone stinkin' knows it.

And it's killing me.

Of course I know it's not true. Because I don't live by sight, and because God said that whatever I put my hand to will prosper. I know I have an enemy who doesn't sleep, and who wants more than anything for me to fail/quit. And be depressed and miserable in the meantime. I also know my God loves me, believes in me, forgives me, trusts me, has faith in me, is behind me, goes before me, is my strength, hope and peace.

And yet it's still killing me. And it hurts, because I don't like it when people are upset with or disappointed in me. I don't like it when people think I'm wrong. I want it to stop, but I know that if it does I'm in real trouble. I need to sit back, bite something, and let it kill me.

In the meantime, if I bite you, I'm sorry. It's just that I'm in a lot of pain.

pride

The other scar on my heart will (hopefully) continue to remind me of the dangers of pride.

2. Pride comes before a fall. Now no one involved here had become obnoxiously haughty. In fact it was so minor that I initially wondered if it was even that at all. The night before the attack Timothy and I were talking about it, though: what I'd noticed and what could be going on ...

Later I caught a glimpse of what must have happened, and Timothy and I talked it over in the car. Then Sunday morning Dennis even talked about it a bit in his message.

Pride is a subtle thing. It disguises itself in so many ways, and it doesn't take much to hurt someone.

Disobedience is motivated by pride. Disobedience springs from a heart that thinks it knows better than the authority it's under. Disobedience assumes God is not, in fact, all-knowing, or that for some reason it is not subject to His authority in a particular situation. It's the fruit of a heart tainted by pride, and that's why Proverbs calls it a precursor to destruction.

It bothered me for a bit that I saw it and did nothing about it, but I'm glad now that I saw it and you can bet that next time I'll intervene before a fall. You do the same for me. I've got a forest of pride in my heart that I'm trying to weed out, but if I become unusually haughty someone stop me before I fall.