A Little Background to My Present Circumstances

I was wondering today how I had gotten to this point. I thought I was fine, well, content to suffer in a universe without a God. But it all started a few months ago, perhaps even a long as a year; it began with spontaneous crying jags. It wasn't crying really, more like tears welling up at the oddest moments. Looking back now, the usually trigger seemed to an instance where someone tried (and often failed) to overcome their circumstances, a old man walking with a cane, a duck trying to corral its young and any song about such circumstances. It was baffling but I took no real notice of it; I figured it was just a another stage in my increasing madness, like seeing a gray hair or a wrinkle as a sign of old age, its just natural for me.

Around this time, I had cracked open my old Larry Norman tapes, not to get spiritual but just because I had his songs swirling around in my head, mostly off In Another Land. Then it was on to Kieth Green and even Petra. It was nice to listen to familiar melodies even if still had some disdain for that period in my life. There were others bands too, but it was a song by Big Tent Revival, one that barely clung to my memory, that caused me the most angst.

The title of the song was "Famine or Feast" and recalls the singer's faith in the face of financial struggles. In the second verse he says, "My best friend's a doctor, how he has been blessed, drives a new Mercedes and always has the best." From the first time I heard it again, I immediately thought of Jeremy. I could picture him saying that of me, I am going for my Ph.D. (thus the doctor reference) and have taken to purchasing more high quality merchandise like Fender guitars and Stickley desks (thus the always has the best reference). Even as I write this now, my eyes are welling up because I can hear him say this in the same joyful way as the singer of the song, no ill feeling, no jealously, just a genuine happiness that a brother has at the sight of his siblings success. But where did it leave me? Obviously I don't always have the best or else I wouldn't writing this.

I still haven't responded to Rev. Linda's email. I did purchase one of the books she suggested but I have no compulsion to move any further. Perhaps my visit to the church was enough to placate my sense of meaninglessness, as if I was able to reassure myself that, yes, I am doing something...standing in circles.

The Itchy Scabs of an Eternal Wound

I am still finding it hard to get into the Nouwen book. It was written by and for someone in a different place than I am. Of course, as is the case with suffering, there are parts of each person's experience that are common to all, but instead of being enriched, as I am sure the author intended, I find myself mostly analyzing his perspective.

The first theme I noticed is the prominence of love which, I must admit, did not initial stand out to me. My tradition defines God's love in terms of demonstrable acts, the saving of the ark, the parting of the Red (Reed) Sea, the crucifixion of Christ. There are even examples of it in the present, the granting of higher salaries to hardworking individuals and spaces in crowded mall parking lots for busy shoppers. Nouwen, by contrast, seems to see God's love as an end in itself, akin to Lewis God-shaped void, effectual by its very existence. Thus, God's love need only to be given to us in the cosmo-eternal sense (both timeless and boundless) without any expectation of all the trappings of earthly love the intensity and authenticity of which is usually judged by acts of affection and submission.

Nouwen's almost obsessive reliance on God's love caused me to wonder about my own needs and desires. For him, loneliness is a real and pressing problem like hungry, the embodiment of the human condition and he expresses it so convincingly, but he is even more convinced that God's love is its only remedy. I admire Nouwen because he is able to walk the fine line between a gospel that preaches temporal comfort and one that focuses only on eternal security. For him, love is our most enduring need and following from his description, God's love is both a salve for our earthly wounds, which are simply the itchy scabs of an eternal wound, and a promised cure for that condition.

As for me, I long, as everyone else does, for affection and affirmation, but as I found, my need of something does not justify or cause its existence. At this point in my life, God is a mystery to be solved not a balm to be applied. My pain, if I could call it that, is cerebral not necessarily emotional and as much as I would like to uncover other festering wounds hidden beneath the distractions, for now, I will continue to focus on my intellectual curiosity.

Standing in Circles

I decided not to attend St. John's this morning, or any other faith terminal, but I did purchase a book by the author Rev. Linda suggested, a priest named Henri Nouwen. I did some research into his biography; he seemed to fit nicely into the mold of the postwar Ivy League catholic intellectual that focused on the social gospel while advocated humanity carefully manage its ability to destroy its own surroundings. Someone who a person in my tradition would never have even heard of, while reading Wilkerson, Nee and Colson. He did bare some striking resemblances to Merton in the isolation of his journey but it was in his poignant personal reflections that I found the true struggle that catholics try to atone for through ceremony, mainliners try to mitigate through action and fundamentalists try to overcome through sheer will.

I went with a title that most reflected my own condition, The Inner Voice of Love: A Journey Through Anguish to Freedom. It sounded hopeful enough while still being firmly rooted in the torment that punctuates so much of our lives. I was disappointed to find out that the book is comprised mostly of devotional-type entries, I was anticipating a C.S. Lewis-like biography of Nouwen's own struggles. Nonetheless, it is insightful. As with my own life, I am trying to find a unifying theme, a consistent undercurrent that purposefully draws me to (?) and conveniently ties all the loose end up in a bow.

Perhaps the journey is not a journey in the colloquial sense of the word. It is not so much staying on the path as it is finding it beneath the distractions and distortions. Perhaps the path isn't linear at all, bringing one from point A to point B, but rather cylindrical drawing one into every deepening circles of detail. That would at least explain the feeling I have of having been here, or somewhere that appears very much like here, before. Maybe the path enables the sojourner to revisit past events and perceive them in a new light and each time that light gets brighter, illuminating more detail until it becomes so brilliant that it acts like a mirror revealing more of the inside than what is outside.

The Meaning of Meaningless

It would appear that I have not moved very far away from my days as a youth which I spend nearly immobilized by a continuous stream of thoughts in trying to unpack the relentless enigma of the meaning of the meaninglessness of in my life. Even if I am able to uncover the exact nature of this tortuous phenomenon, and it is doubtful that I should ever get that far, I am still left with the fact that, at the heart of it, my search is a quest for meaning. If meaning is all I am looking for, I should quit the hours spent agonizing in the darkness and join a civic organization. If it is simply meaning that I need to sooth this malaise then this is all I really need to do--nothing more. How dare I slip into the back pew to assuage my desire for meaning? Mine is a superficial wound that only requires a bandage not surgery--if that is all I am searching for.

It is those who simply thirst after meaning that fill the ranks of civic minded churches. It is those who feed the hungry, clothe the naked and heal the sick exclusively that are at the same time utterly blind to the tragic nature of their own eternal affairs. Yes, they are good people, people who may be totally unaware of enormity of the cosmic need that surrounds them. Christ saw his ability to forgive as much greater than any miracle He could perform to alleviate temporal suffering. Of course, this did not stop Him from healing and feeding many, countess numbers in fact; yet, His mission was to seek and save the lost. Those who were lost in sin, not simply earthly sickness.

But I digress. I can't simply return for meaning. No doubt, I will find it there as I would anywhere else that provides my idle hands with some task that distracts my mind (or soul) from longing from whatever that appears to be missing. Perhaps, it could be forgiveness but if it is then I am unaware of any desire for it at the present moment. Yet, I know that to really return I must truly desire it and no just a respite from my boredom. Of course I want to believe there is a God, just like Camus, but that doesn't amount to any kind of specific commitment. In fact, I am not even sure that would qualify as a good intention. It is purely driven by my unquenchable narcissism and how unlikely it would be to lead me to the most selfless of all.

Addicted to Meaning

I attended church today, St. John's United Church of Christ to be exact; it was the first time I had gone of my own volition (not for friends' sermons or family occasions) in just over seven years. Why St. John's, it was the only place in the immediate area that would allow me to complete my internship when I was in my final year at Bible college while at the same time being acceptable to the internship coordinator who had summarily rejected an internship at a Unitarian congregation. The church's pastor, Rev. Linda presumably looked past my theology, or had pity on me--a young man who was still reeling from the lost of his faith while trying to finish out his requirements for graduation from a Pentecostal Bible college. Either way, she provided me with a respite from the relentless struggle I encountered almost everyday in the halls, classrooms and chapel of the college.

So I returned there, this morning, not sure as to what I would say to her. I didn't want to barge into her office some weekday night unannounced, a phone call or email were out of the question, so I had to meet her after the service. She immediately disarmed my hesitation with her casual style, unassuming while at the same time intense. I told her that despite my unintentional and sometimes very intentional attempts to distract myself from the spiritual realm, I could not escape a nagging feeling of emptiness. My life lacked meaning.

She put her head down and pondered for a moment. When she spoke, she did not quote me the scriptures, offer to pray for me or rebuke me for my continued waywardness rather she challenged me to go further and clarify the exact nature of the meaninglessness. Was it because of a lack of fulfillment in some other area of my life, was it clinical, youthful restlessness or something more. Knowing that I am an avid reader she tossed out two authors but hesitated to give titles until she had researched it further.

I told her that this may just be a passing phase--you see, I am addicted to meaning in much the same way a drug addict might be hooked on heroin. For the heroin addict, the craving is as real as his punctured veins, be that as it may, his friends and family will continue to plead with him to go into rehab. He has a choice, sell all his possessions, beg, borrow, even steal, to support his habit or cut it off completely, isolate himself for so long from the thing he loves more than life itself until he smothers it beneath the cloak of persistent indifference.

I, no doubt, have a similar addiction, an intense need for meaning. I have flirted with existentialism and its absurdity but I just can't embrace it in my heart. Of course it makes sense, everyday I live I am bombarded with countless examples of its accuracy and yet I cannot or will not rest from my search for meaning. I am not content to make it myself, concocting it in my mind like a script that I intend to act out, it want it to come from outside of myself but all I see is darkness beyond me. Although the darkness may not be coming from outside, perhaps I have lived so long looking inwardly that I am unable to look elsewhere and am simply seeing the darkness of my own soul.

Soliloquy for the Incredulous

As much as it pains me to admit this, in my zeal for remaining true to my intellectual self, I have all but turned my back on my spiritual self. I have for so long tried to refrain from giving into my desires because there was a part of me that could no longer rationalize their legitimacy. I miss the church and what's more, I need not make any apology for that declaration. It is what I feel. But if only it where true for it is hard enough to live without certainty, seeing through the glass darkly, but to do so in the face of such blatant offensives to its beauty is beyond my ability. At least if I had the certainty of the gospel's veracity I could stomach the church's indiscretions--even embrace them as I would a wayward relative, but I can only continue to look on in disgust with no respite from the horrible sight that presents itself to me it all its ugliness. Yet, if I could be assured of its certainty, I being as every other person, the whole world would be privy to its truth and then what of faith? It hard enough to believe in a thing which one cannot see or hear or touch but it is even harder still to believe when every granule of existence mocks the very notion of its truth. Anyone can lust after a gorgeous woman, by only a truly dedicated lover can be committed to one that lacks such beauty--only he is able to see beyond the temporal flaws.

The words of the father whose son was possessed come back to me almost daily now, "I believe, help my unbelief." But I stop short of uttering that prayer. For fear that it would be answer? Perhaps. I have smothered the flames of my faith to the point that it is nothing more than smoldering ash, the smoke of which, when I dare to come near, chokes me and turns me away.

Pragmatic Perfectionism, Oxymoronic or Zen

I would have said the former with the stubbornness of a toddler in the midst of a tantrum...that is, until yesterday. Not that I have totally embraced the importance of pragmatism or relinquished all of my skepticism regarding those who merely strive to get to point B without any thought as to the real purpose of the journey. Rather, I wonder if I could be accused of cloaking my own progress beneath the guise of perfectionism. One can construct the most ideal scenario in his/her mind, say a relationship with another human being, as a lover, but until he or she makes some demonstrable gesture to bring that relationship to fruition, the intensity of feeling, and, more importantly, the existence of the relationship, is nothing more that a figment in the mind...an untested concept that is ineffectual fantasy.

So the gesture is ridiculed as simple and hackneyed, but at least it rose to the surface, saw the light of day. As it is better to have loved and lost, perhaps it, too, is better to have lived and failed than never tried at all. Where is the perfect church or the perfect Christian? Who, after nearly 2000 years, has any hope of coming closer to the Master that those who have tried before only to crucify Him again by their failures, bringing reproach upon His name and sacrifice. A few perhaps, in the quietness of their heart, with actions seen only by a few, never to be recorded for posterity or praise. And yet they continued in their passionate pursuit of the prize not content to wait until the narrow way was codified and rationalized. They used Christ rather than reason or consistency as their guide, faltering and falling short along the way because they could only see as through a glass darkly but it was their willingness to live with ambiguity that allowed them to leap further than any other. St. Peter expresses this best when faced with absurdity of Christ's message, " Lord, to whom shall we go? You alone have the words of eternal life."

It is out of desperate realization that one acts, without the realization the act is meaningless, but without some step toward the unknown how desperate could the realization really been?

A Long Overdue Systematic Theology

Although I am not a Christian, my theology, if I could rightly call it that, is quite orthodox--even literal, in fact. By literal I do not mean fundamentalist, these are people who take themselves too literally. For me it boils down to this, my abridged systematic theology. In order for me to be a Christian, I must believe in Christ but not simply as the demons do, as the Scripture warns us, but as one who trusts that Christ's work is salvific (Christology). What do I mean by salvific? That He has saved me from some undesirable state--the state of sin (Soteriology). However, in order to believe this, I must first believe that this state is truly undesirable (Hamartiology). What would make it so? Eternal damnation, perhaps, or for postmodernist, separation from God. In order to accept this answer, I must also believe in an afterlife where at least two paths exist (Eschatology). Who then determines my fate? Of course, the Arminist would argue that only I can do that, but in reality, it is ultimately God who determines my final destiny for He has determined both the penalty and required the payment (Theology Proper). Of course, none of this could I construct on my own, I must also believe in the reliability of the record and its divine origins (Bibliology). Thus when one is saved, it is by no means a simple declaration of faith but an fundamental altering of a world view with the assistance of the Holy Spirit who brings all things eternal into the mind of the finite.

Now having laid out my abbreviated theology, I must admit that in the past I have hidden behind it, used it as a barrier to keep others away rather than a bridge to bring them closer. Although to me Christianity will always be best when it is firmly rooted in Scripture, steeped in the profundity of eternal truths, how one gives voice to the Gospel is another matter. We are told that they will hate us because of Christ, and every committed member of the faith should accept, no, embrace this. But if they hate Christ because of one of us--who then will stand with us on the final day? It is a careful balance, one that is arrived at with much prayer and intentionality, that one must strike between openness and aloofness, acceptance and rejection. Thus, one must always endeavor to speak the truth in love, one is no value without the other.

There is no beauty left in the world...

No true beauty anyway, everything is flawed, not grotesque but somehow less than what is should be. There are not grand causes and noble pursuits. When I look at any of the commitments I could make they all lack the passion, the dedication and the purpose that make an act an end in itself and not simply a step toward solving a problem or making one feel better about oneself. So I give an hour of my time to the poor, so what, do I really believe that I am making a difference with that one hour—if only to underscore the utter inequity of the need in relation to the resources offered. Can I truly walk away from that situation feeling a little bit better about myself, about the difference I have made?

These are all pitiful, illusory ends, disparate acts which add up to nothing and worse prostitute the potentially meaningful for the despicable end of betterment. Isn’t all that matters one’s identification with Christ, to share in His sufferings through touching the people He touched? Even He did not challenge the state of the poor but simply sought to be with them in their sufferings. Christ does not offer a solution, but rather the realization of a greater problem. It is true faith that accepts the immutability of this problem and in so doing relinquishes any reliance on one’s abilities to solve it.