Mirrored Expectations

(I probably ought to apologize for not posting anything for almost four years. And I would, if I had more devotees than limbs. But I don't, so I won't.)

I didn't expect much from the day.

I drove down to Dora on Sunday to preach at Needmore. I really wasn't expecting much out of the trip. I had about 48 hours' notice, so I didn't expect the sermon to go over especially well, and I figured I'd grab a bite with the family and hit the road to come back home. Thankfully, for once, I was wrong.

I struck out at around seven in the morning to great weather. After a fill up at the gas station, I was on the road. Road trips are actually a delight now thanks to my Slacker G2 - I was listening to great stuff from Ben Folds, Jimmy Eat World, and Metric. I rolled into Mountain Grove and realized I was pretty early, so I decided to stop and grab a bite.

I initially hit the left lane to go to Wal-Mart, but then I remembered the Country Mart just off the highway. I decided I didn't want to trek over five acres of Discount City for a cheese danish, so I veered right instead. I hopped out and went inside, expecting to settle for a premade pastry of some sort. As I walked in, I noticed the deli was on the west side of the building, and I thought, 'It would be cool if the deli was open.' Then, to my surprise, I saw the deli was open. I wandered over and found the next of the day's many delights: hot biscuits and sausage gravy, just waiting to be ordered. Not the cardboard hockey pucks covered with runny flour-water most places pass off as biscuits and gravy, but homemade biscuits with fresh, thick sausage gravy.

I asked for two biscuits with gravy and braced myself for the cost. I knew the flour-water pucks across the street at McDonald's were relatively expensive compared to the rest of the menu, so I could only imagine what these things would cost. The answer? Two bucks. I rarely smile when relinquishing money, but I couldn't help it. I ate them with joy in my car while I listened to a little old-school Silverchair.

I eventually found my way to Dora and the Needmore Church of God. From infancy to the time I was twenty years old, this was my church. I spent hours in that building being formed into who I am today, learning the old hymns of the church, the poetry of the psalms, and the power of quiet faith in simple people. I often balk at the idea that I could ever tell these people anything about how to live their lives, but they are kind enough to listen to me, anyway.

I only had a couple of days' notice, so I only had a six by eight legal pad scrawled with rough notes of what I wanted to say. I was fully expecting to burn through my material in ten minutes and to be forced to retreat to my notes over and over. To my happy surprise, though, I relaxed and just talked to everyone like the friends they were, and didn't have any problems with time or content.

After church the family gathered at Mom and Dad's house for barbecue, where I had my fill, of course. Then in the afternoon I decided to head out for a spin on the ATV. I buzzed around and got to one of the river bottoms, and this is where I had a realization. I had to swim.

I had changed into board shorts at the house, and it was way over ninety degrees. The water looked deliciously refreshing. I decided to go to one of my favorite swimming holes and take a dip (thanks to Kyle Kosovich for the picture). Silly me, though, forgot the undergrowth had already erupted in the woods this late in June. Thus I found there was suddenly a ticket price to get to my swim: sweat and pain.

I pulled the ATV off the dirt road and parked it in the weeds. As I looked, though, I realized they weren't benign greenery. They were the dreaded stinging weeds of the forested river bottom. If you've never walked through a thicket of them in bare legs...well, you're better off. I decided I would not be deterred, though. I high stepped through them Deion Sanders-style, then got to the small brook that empties into the river. I slogged and splashed though, sometimes deftly leaping log to log, sometimes plowing through thigh-deep water, but always pressing forward. After nearly breaking my face when a half-rotten log snapped in half under me, and after vaulting over a fallen log that likely grew up the same time my grandparents did, the ravine I was in opened up to the spectacular view of the Martin Ford shoal shimmering in the Bryant River valley.

I sloshed through the water of the shoal, which was easily twenty or thirty degrees warmer than the spring water I'd just left in the ravine. I stripped off my shirt, because that's just how you do, and my watch, because I really didn't care, and dove into the water. Standing neck deep in the river's water, I drew deep the aroma of my favorite smell on the earth: the scent of the river at the water's surface. Some of you know exactly what I'm talking about; others of you have no idea. If you don't, there's no way I can describe it to you. It doesn't smell like anything else, and it is what it is. For me, it's one of those smells that removes you from your present circumstance and takes you back to years gone by. It reminded me of a time when the most important decision I might make in a day's time was whether or not I wanted more mashed potatoes. As I exhaled that sweet breath, I settled into a sense of contentment and belonging. I settled, ultimately, into a worship experience.

There, alone in that lapping water, so removed that literally nobody could have heard me scream, I had the distinct feeling come over me that I was exactly where I was supposed to be. There were thousands of places I could have been, but only one where I should have been, and that was in that water. I looked around at the leaves lush on the trees, the minnows flickering within six inches of me, the dragonfly hovering delicately above the water's surface. I felt torn by my own presence - somehow guilty of interrupting the symphony of circumstance swelling around me, yet assured of the fact that I somehow needed to participate in it, to allow myself to be a small part of it.

As I bobbed in the water, though, I wondered how on earth I was enjoying myself. I had another bout with the stinging weeds to look forward to. I was being attacked by mosquitoes bigger than horseflies and horseflies bigger than...well, bigger than they needed to be. I had crashed through stagnant, frigid water, listening to unknown critters scurrying in the underbrush around me, only to get to the river and pick about a dozen biting ticks off of my legs. Most would have declined to take the trip, and the rest wouldn't have enjoyed themselves once they got there. I mean, I was taking deep breaths, walking around neck deep in sediment-laced river water, for God's sake.

But I cherish that water. The journey was composed of steps worth taking.

I think there are ultimately a lot of things in life we cherish, or would cherish if we could. Invariably, though, things crop up in your path. People buzz around you threatening to drain the life out of you. Stagnation threatens to discourage your steps. Parasites attach themselves to you and consume your resources. The issue we must face is whether the journey to our goal is composed of steps worth taking. I know mine certainly was. For in that current, in that moment, I was allowed a sage's wisdom and a child's joy.

The sun's long rays bid me leave that emerald pool, and suddenly I was six years old again, begrudgingly trudging out of the water, which was already becoming palpably cooler. I took one last dip, finding a sturdy rock in the swift water of the shoal and holding myself under the surface, feeling the force of the water undulating and pulsing around me as I'd done countless times in my youth. At long last, I arose, heading back for the ravine. Before I plunged into its shadows, though, I paused and looked back.

The sun's light was beginning to take on a tangerine glow as it prepared to set, its warmth softly glinting upon the peaks of the undulating water. It was the bittersweet parting of one friend who must stay and another who must go. I silently promised my return and departed from a friend who will never leave me. I mounted my steed of steel and zipped back between the trees, splashing through standing water and relishing the abandon I thought I was too jaded to ever feel again.

I didn't expect much from the day. Little did I know that the day expected a lot from me.

The god of Nothing

[This post is something I wrote back in April of 2003, unchanged except for a one-character typo; as I read back over it, I realize that I must have been going through something in my head, because the tone is impossibly dark. Just know that I have grown considerably in the two and a half years since I penned it.]

The god of Nothing

I find myself trying to figure out all of life in a simple
rumination, a pondering. It's all crystalline, then
nothing makes sense, then it's ridiculously simple, and at
the same time maddeningly impossible to figure out. The
essence of life eludes my grasp, and I hate it for that,
despite my love for it. I find myself wondering about life
quite a lot. I wonder what the life spark is. I mean,
we're all flesh and bone. Yet what is the bridge between
life and death? What is present in our being that, once
removed, causes our life on earth to relinquish its
existence? Our heart beats because our brain thinks; but
why does our brain think? When did it start thinking? What
fired the first neuron? How did our bodies come to have
electricity in them? This is what I think about, always in
a cyclic fashion. The spark of life. I've always assured
other people that it's every bit God's doing. Well, I've
tried to. They want proof. This is why I ponder. If only I
could find a connection. If only I could point to
something and say, there. It is undeniable. But that never
occurs. Things that are real and distinct to me fall on
deaf ears and uncomprehending hearts, and make me stumble
backward and reassess myself. Such conviction those who do
not believe have. Such a patent, sure faith in nothing. If
only I could put as much faith in an all powerful God as
they put into nothing at all. I suppose, though, that it
would be easier and far more convenient to serve nothing.
Nothing requires more of the same. If there is nothing,
then nothing will come, and nothing is required. With
nothing comes no obligation but to one's self interests,
whatever those might be interpreted to be. One easily
justifies their actions in the light of being overarched
by nothing in particular, since the righteous man's end
under the grasp of nothing will be identical to the wicked
man's end under the grasp of nothing. But what is
righteous and wicked, anyway? If there is nothing to give
allegiance to, who's to judge such a thing? If it's in my
interest to be wicked under nothing, then aren't I being
righteous unto myself? The fear of Hell may as well go to
the same, since retribution cannot be imposed by nothing,
as nothing is powerless to save or condemn. So, why don't
I murder that person who just looked at me crossly?
Retribution is a negative fantasy, an attempt by the weak
to shame their predators into compliance with their will.
Though, mortal retribution remains. So what if there are
no consequences? What if I could unleash a torrent of
hedonism on the world without dire effects? To what am I
pledged to?

The answer comes back, To God, to God. So here I lie with
my faith. It's a pretty little faith, all polished and
nice. I am powerless to share it, though. Everybody
replies, No, thank you kindly, I have my own. Sometimes
they look at it, sometimes they smile, but they never take
any. Sometimes I don't want them to, because their faith
isn't little like mine, and it's much prettier. Sometimes
I take some of theirs when that happens. Then someone else
comes along, and I am very sad. They have a little tiny
faith, or worse, no little faith at all. I try to give
them mine, but they stress that they are fine. They are
happy. Then I walk away, only to find them trodding a
circle in the path behind. Shall I try again? Maybe if my
little faith was bigger, maybe if it was prettier. Maybe
then they would like to have some. So I polish my little
faith, and nurture it to grow, while the grass wilts
underfoot in their trodden circle. And I go back and
say, "Here is my pride again...don't you like it?" Then
they tell me that it isn't real. They tell me that I'm
polishing nothing at all, nurturing a fantasy, clutching a
mere dream of my own creation. Then my little faith looks
dull and small again. Then they say, "Tell me why you have
your little faith without resorting to talking about the
reason you have your faith, and then I will believe you
and have some little faith of my own." Then I flurry
myself into thinking, and pondering, and searching. When I
think I've hit upon something, I offer it to them, only to
be denied again, only to be called a fool and a
simpleton. "It's okay that you're dumb," they say, "just
don't force me to be dumb too." So I sit and cry and
console myself with my little faith that apparently does
not even exist. Don't they see it? Why would I carry
something without reason to do so? Why would I waste
energy in something that is without foundational basis? I
want to go, but I cannot leave. I want to leave, but I
cannot go. I stand staring at them, staring at their
wretched, awful circle, not wanting to forsake them, but
weary of lingering. My faith is a light that seems to only
illuminate itself, never shedding light on anything else,
never proving itself worthy in the oh so different light
that the circle shines. Wretched circle. It's now a rut,
still trodden religiously, filled with blood. I suppose
it's better to be bleeding than to be a fool like me.

I look at my little faith again, looking closely, seeing
its light shed itself upon my hand. Then I see the source
of the light.

The spark.

The winnowing fork of time, the separator of the grain of
life from the chaff of death, the essence of true life.
The spark glows warmly. I go to extend it to them, but
they have blinded themselves, claiming joy as they slosh
through their own blood, having damned themselves to those
cursed orbits of death around nothing in particular.

I turn and walk on, head low in despair. My spark's
presence will always be there. Perhaps they will extricate
themselves and hear my spark's whisper before they drown
in their own mire of blood.

I lift my head. Then I see them. A million circles, lining
my path. So many halos crowning the god of Nothing. Some
with live grass yet underfoot. Some forever trodden,
brimming with blood. A million people I have yet to meet.
A million people revolving around nothing at all. A
million people who will not take my spark. I covet their
circles. I am revolted by their circles. There are so many
circles. I scream at nothing in particular, since that's
the only thing anybody seems to believe in. I slander and
curse this present absence. It is to no avail, for I am
dripping blood as I lie idle in the road. I pick myself
up, I press my hand to my little faith to make for certain
it is there.

Then I walk, leaving my spark's presence at each ellipse
in the ground. A presence to fight the wretched absence.
So I smile, despite the bleakness.

For one day, all the scarlet halos will shatter, and
Nothing will die.

Let Flow the River of Life

So, I found a four year old draft of a post that I was working on but never got around to actually publishing. I've set off the old portion of the post, and taken the liberty of, finally, finishing my thought.

Yeah, it's been a crazy long time since I've posted. I'd give you excuses, but I don't have to, because it's my website. Plus the fact that you probably don't exist, because nobody reads this thing. I mean, it's not like I haven't had any deep thoughts since this past spring; I just haven't had a chance to glue myself to this page for a few minutes.

Oh, I'm such a liar. I have had chances. I just didn't take them. Well, I guess I'd better bring the blog up to speed, anyway. Let's see, I worked all summer, started college classes with an 18 hour courseload, quit my job because I was going to suffocate being out of the house and being away from my wife and friends all the time, I just finished a quadruple-decker quesadilla with mushrooms (by the way, yes, it is after midnight), and I'm working on a pitcher of Kool-Aid by myself because Kimberly doesn't like cherry. Go figure.

Done and done. Now for the deep philosophical stuff.

Life is a river. I know, you're sick of hearing similes about life. Life is beautiful. Life is good. Life is . And at points, one or all of those might be true. But life is always a river. Why?

For one thing, rivers are laughably simple and unnervingly complex in the same stroke. If you think about it, all a river really is is a massive collection of water molecules exerted upon by the gravitational force to flow through topographically depressed areas until they reach an open body of water, where they circulate until evaporation sucks them into the atmosphere and into the remainder of the water cycle. If you look at a river from high above, it just looks like a dark squiggly line juxtaposed against the green and brown streaks of dry land.

If you jump into the river, though, you'll find that it is much more complex than that. First, it is teeming with life. From algal growth to river reeds, bass fingerlings to carp, catfish to water bugs, turtles to the occasional otter and everything in-between, an entire ecosystem hides in that dark squiggle.

Life is the same way. Technically, humans are composed of about twenty different elements ranging from arsenic to zinc that, in the quantity present in an average human body, would cost no more than five dollars. Indeed, in the aftermath of the atomic bombing of Nagasaki, human shaped shadows were found on sidewalk pavement; it was later found that when the bomb hit, the blast wave was so incredibly hot that it flashboiled people walking down the sidewalk, leaving only carbon dust behind.

The trouble (?) is, we're specialized. The base elements composing our bodies can be had for a five spot - but in their structured and specialized forms, the aggregate parts of the human body are worth over forty-five million dollars. It's one thing to know that a lack of serotonin in the brain can lead to episodes of anger - it's quite another to feel that magmatic, seething undercurrent of rage when it burns in our chests. So how do we reconcile the two? How do we acknowledge the presence of serotonin without denying love? How do we admit that the river of life is a dark squiggle while not neglecting that life is so much more than that?

We obviously need a common denominator.

After four years, I think that common denominator is koinonia - fellowship. Koinonia is the Greek word that is well-translated as "communion by intimate participation." The communion that only comes by sharing things in common with people whom you've developed a shared story with. The trick to turning the river of life from a massive collection of molecules to a living ribbon of sapphire is writing that shared story.