My recent encounter with the past has nearly convinced me of something that came into my mind only weeks earlier. I promised myself that if I ever felt as if I was in danger of falling back into the old life I would contact the only person who could truly remind me of why it was I left it in the first place. He never had any real stake in my life or I in his. We simply wanted to know the true, or at least what was false and contradictory. To this end we were wholly committed and it did not matter how far or fast either one of us walked from the faith of our youth, the other would not stretch out his hand to slow the momentum. In fact, we cherished this very characteristic of our relationship.
Periodically we would run through a list of outrageous offenses and blasphemies in order to test whether or not we would relent and break our solemn oath to each other—that the best argument always wins. Loyalty, perhaps not, but it was a type of honor among thieves that we shared. And it is clear to me that after my encounter with those who have never dared to step outside the faith, that their perspective will always be limited. Their question to me will always be, ‘when will you return?’ rather than, ‘what have you seen?’
After listening to Keith Green’s song about the prodigal son I decided to reread the parable myself. In the song, Keith does not mention the older son that faithfully stayed behind, but it is his reaction that sheds the most light on the story’s meaning. The eldest son is justifiable angry at all that has been lavished on his wayward brother. But listen to what the father says when the eldest laments that he was never been given even a small goat for a party, “but you have been with me always,” as if to point out to him that this is so much more than any one celebration. The parable does not capture the eldest son’s response to this, but it is clear from his initial reaction that he did not think it was enough. Perhaps the cliché that one does not know what one has until it is gone is as true of faith as it is of love and companionship.
The message of the prodigal son is not that God welcomes sinners, anyone who thinks the message is that simple does not understand the often hidden complexity of the parables. The true message is that those who consider themselves to be faithful and committed often risk losing a real sense of value of where they are. They believe that they have validated their salvation but they need to receive again an epiphany of their own brokenness. Obviously, it is difficult for me to be away from home, but it has given me a greater appreciation for it since I’ve been gone.
I remember remarking to Frank when he told me that I took the easy way out by leaving the faith that when he made a choice, no matter how it turned out, he could attribute the outcome to God’s sanctioning or God’s chastening of his action. However, when I made a choice, I had not such confidence, not such basis on which to move forward, the responsibility for every step I took was mine and mine alone and worse, no matter where I turned, the choice only amounted to greater or lesser degrees of meaninglessness. He felt he was moving toward something greater than himself while I always felt as if I was just grabbing enough air for my next breath. I need another perspective, a walk in the wilderness, but I am not sure that I am ready to face the Devil’s Advocate.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Turning Over Some Tables
There are times when I can clearly see Christ's face, gentle and luminous, yet even with that clarity it is always surrounded by a thick gray mist that is impenetrable. It is the origin and composition of this haze that alludes me. I was asked, rather presumptuously, by a faith member, "if God is here," he marked the air with the slide of his hand, "where are you?" It did not take me long to expose the absurdity of the question. Not only does it assume that I know where God is but it also proposes that God is in a linear relationship with me as if He is somewhere else and I am moving towards Him as my knowledge of Him gets greater.
This is why I believe, at least in part, that the haze is other people's practice of Christianity and not the completed work of Christ. When I am alone with my thoughts, pondering on the enormity of the problem in comparison to my being, it is there that I see Him most clearly. Perhaps I am closer to the realization that closeness to God is more a function of pride than it is of faith. Even Paul who had an encounter with Christ acknowledged that we see through a glass darkly. It is when we convince ourselves that we are able to wipe that glass clean and see God, that confidence replaces humility.
I am afraid that some have been deceived by the cult of personal power and affect. They are so eager to rush into ministry when both Christ and Paul took time in the desert. Paul who saw Christ, and Christ who was Himself the Son of God both stepped out to ponder the call and if it took Christ 40 days of intense introspection and temptation to prepare Him for three and a half years of ministry, how much longer should it take those who are not as sensitive to the Holy Spirit to minister for a lifetime? Some have confused action with intentionality, success with desire, networking with a genuine impact on another person's life and worse, they have exchanged humility for personal recognition. It does not matter what you have accomplished, it only matters what you are willing to accomplish for Christ--and that cannot be captured on any resume or any webpage.
Faith is a commodity which is bought and sold at a premium. Spiritual knowledge is packaged up and traded to those too lazy or too consumed by their own plans to acquire it themselves through prayer and fasting. It is no better than the indulgences sold by the Church, the same indulgences that spurred Martin Luther to protest, creating a ripple that soon turned into a tidal wave that crashed across Catholic Europe.
One day of prayer and fasting, scheduled in amongst more temporal activities is a sham, an affront to those who laid the foundations of this faith by willingly being enslaved to God's plan. Prayer is not a spiritual workout, performed dutifully every morning and sometimes at night when we have indulged too much in sin. Prayer is an unceasing lifestyle. How can a person called to the highest of callings, given the words of life, having tasted the sweetest nectar of God's boundless love live any longer in the mundane? How can anything less than total submission to God suffice? Humility, compassion and brokenness, these are the commodities of the Kingdom; don't let an outsider, a Philistine, a donkey have to remind you of that. It may be a harsh criticism, but it is truly meant in love.
This is why I believe, at least in part, that the haze is other people's practice of Christianity and not the completed work of Christ. When I am alone with my thoughts, pondering on the enormity of the problem in comparison to my being, it is there that I see Him most clearly. Perhaps I am closer to the realization that closeness to God is more a function of pride than it is of faith. Even Paul who had an encounter with Christ acknowledged that we see through a glass darkly. It is when we convince ourselves that we are able to wipe that glass clean and see God, that confidence replaces humility.
I am afraid that some have been deceived by the cult of personal power and affect. They are so eager to rush into ministry when both Christ and Paul took time in the desert. Paul who saw Christ, and Christ who was Himself the Son of God both stepped out to ponder the call and if it took Christ 40 days of intense introspection and temptation to prepare Him for three and a half years of ministry, how much longer should it take those who are not as sensitive to the Holy Spirit to minister for a lifetime? Some have confused action with intentionality, success with desire, networking with a genuine impact on another person's life and worse, they have exchanged humility for personal recognition. It does not matter what you have accomplished, it only matters what you are willing to accomplish for Christ--and that cannot be captured on any resume or any webpage.
Faith is a commodity which is bought and sold at a premium. Spiritual knowledge is packaged up and traded to those too lazy or too consumed by their own plans to acquire it themselves through prayer and fasting. It is no better than the indulgences sold by the Church, the same indulgences that spurred Martin Luther to protest, creating a ripple that soon turned into a tidal wave that crashed across Catholic Europe.
One day of prayer and fasting, scheduled in amongst more temporal activities is a sham, an affront to those who laid the foundations of this faith by willingly being enslaved to God's plan. Prayer is not a spiritual workout, performed dutifully every morning and sometimes at night when we have indulged too much in sin. Prayer is an unceasing lifestyle. How can a person called to the highest of callings, given the words of life, having tasted the sweetest nectar of God's boundless love live any longer in the mundane? How can anything less than total submission to God suffice? Humility, compassion and brokenness, these are the commodities of the Kingdom; don't let an outsider, a Philistine, a donkey have to remind you of that. It may be a harsh criticism, but it is truly meant in love.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
A Way In Or A Way Out
I turned up a little before 11:00 Thursday morning at Rev. Linda's office. It was the same as I had remembered it, a line of bookshelves down one side of the office and an awkwardly placed loveseat perpendicular to her desk and a cushioned chair on the other side. At first I couldn't figure out where to sit, the sofa was set low, so that my head just rose above the surface of the desk. Owning to my general discomfort, I sat at the farthest corner of the sofa where I could have the best vantage point of her position for I incorrectly assumed that she would remain behind her desk during our conversation, it was one of many wrong assumptions I would make about our meeting.
As soon as she was finished with the email she was writing, she came out from behind her desk and sat at the cushioned chair beside the couch nearest to the end where I was seated. I promptly but nonchalantly moved to the opposite end to give myself more breathing room. As she was arranging herself in the chair, she asked me if I still felt the meaninglessness that I had described to her the Sunday of my visit. I tried to answer but did not feel comfortable confirming or denying the statement that I had made. I wasn't that she made me uncomfortable, quite the contrary, her disarming style, a cross between an aunt and a hippie, made it easy to express my feelings. But in this instance, I truly did not know. That is why I proceeded to expound on the uncertainty of my feelings. And she listened, patiently and intently, only responding when I had spent what was off the top of my head on the subject.
What I told her, in short, was that I was unsure about what I wanted to do about the faith. I longed for it, yes, but did I truly love it or was I just lusting after its rites and rituals. Was it the case that when I saw Frank ministering I was jealous because I knew it is what I should be doing or was I just exhibiting the lingering emotions sparked in a man who sees another man's arms around an ex-lover? I sat back in my chair, pleased with the sound of my own eloquence. I anticipated a gasp at the profundity of my self-reflections, but instead Rev. Linda seemed more intrigued by the enduring belief I had in my own freedom. She had only to say a couple of words to remind that her response emanated from her reformed traditional and for those of us brought up in the Arminianist camp this could be summed up in one word—predestination.
But true to her disarming style, she did not present it to me in the way so many of her Baptist brethren had done when I would clash with them over the issue as we were both trying, unsuccessfully, to win innocent bystanders to Christ. Her interpretation of it was more in line with Christian Existentialism with its leap of faith into the absurd. I had never thought of Calvinism in such a way. To clarify her position further, she quoted the first question from the Heidelberg Catechism, which I had passed over only a day before, "what is our only comfort in life and death?" That I am not my own." Yes, this is a clear affirmation of Calvinistic doctrine, but it is also a respite for those, like me, who are being crushed under the weight of there own freedom.
Her words caught me unawares, the thought of finding my own way back without the constraints and judgments of past peers was tantalizing but I fought the temptation to embrace them, reminding her that even the simple declaration she had given me as a test of membership, "I believe in Jesus as my lord and saviors," had deep and intertwining roots in systemic theology and in my mind Truth, with a capital T, does not coexist with ambiguity. For her, Truth can be thought of as the light at the end of a very long tunnel rather than a fire one is able to contain in one's hand and hold out to others. She challenged my belief that I had to or could even hope to figure it all out. For her, proselytizing meant helping those one might find naked, depressed, imprisoned and hungry toward that light. But the old hermeneutic dies hard, the voice of the Evangelical hollered back to me saying, "true, true, you won't be able to figure it out in your present state, you must be dead to the world and alive in Christ before you can see such a glorious Truth, but it is possible." I live in two worlds, I believe like the one and think like the other and the result is that I belong to neither.
This is the epiphany that came to me during our conversation. I have not been able to escape the faith, I may not be part of it salvifically, but it still defines me. Spong remarked that "Christianity must change or die," but it has always been my fervent belief that Christianity could do no such thing and therefore must die, or more accurately, I must die to it. I could not hope to change it and I could not change the perspective I had gained, so I left it. Now, Rev. Linda presented a compelling argument to the contrary in a way that challenging but not meant as a challenge. She understood all to well my struggle but she also discerned that I was a "pull yourself up by the bootstraps kind of guy," as she said.
And it's true; I want it to be hard. I want to suffer and struggle and present my life, wholly committed to and convinced of the Gospel, as an offering to Christ and I can't do that now. In this, Jeremy would applaud Rev. Linda's challenge to me. For he had remarked only weeks before, that he would not what me to return to the way I was in the faith; I can now see why he said that although at the time it seemed strange. But he knows that it is an all-consuming passion for me that burns out everything instead of warming those around it with a gentle glow. It is becoming clearer now, I feel the burden lessening, slightly, but at the same time, as I look up from this deep swell, I see a tremendous wave, a wall of churning water, forming before me, baring down on me with unimaginable force and I am being sucked towards its wake and I cannot see what is behind it but it appears insurmountable.
As soon as she was finished with the email she was writing, she came out from behind her desk and sat at the cushioned chair beside the couch nearest to the end where I was seated. I promptly but nonchalantly moved to the opposite end to give myself more breathing room. As she was arranging herself in the chair, she asked me if I still felt the meaninglessness that I had described to her the Sunday of my visit. I tried to answer but did not feel comfortable confirming or denying the statement that I had made. I wasn't that she made me uncomfortable, quite the contrary, her disarming style, a cross between an aunt and a hippie, made it easy to express my feelings. But in this instance, I truly did not know. That is why I proceeded to expound on the uncertainty of my feelings. And she listened, patiently and intently, only responding when I had spent what was off the top of my head on the subject.
What I told her, in short, was that I was unsure about what I wanted to do about the faith. I longed for it, yes, but did I truly love it or was I just lusting after its rites and rituals. Was it the case that when I saw Frank ministering I was jealous because I knew it is what I should be doing or was I just exhibiting the lingering emotions sparked in a man who sees another man's arms around an ex-lover? I sat back in my chair, pleased with the sound of my own eloquence. I anticipated a gasp at the profundity of my self-reflections, but instead Rev. Linda seemed more intrigued by the enduring belief I had in my own freedom. She had only to say a couple of words to remind that her response emanated from her reformed traditional and for those of us brought up in the Arminianist camp this could be summed up in one word—predestination.
But true to her disarming style, she did not present it to me in the way so many of her Baptist brethren had done when I would clash with them over the issue as we were both trying, unsuccessfully, to win innocent bystanders to Christ. Her interpretation of it was more in line with Christian Existentialism with its leap of faith into the absurd. I had never thought of Calvinism in such a way. To clarify her position further, she quoted the first question from the Heidelberg Catechism, which I had passed over only a day before, "what is our only comfort in life and death?" That I am not my own." Yes, this is a clear affirmation of Calvinistic doctrine, but it is also a respite for those, like me, who are being crushed under the weight of there own freedom.
Her words caught me unawares, the thought of finding my own way back without the constraints and judgments of past peers was tantalizing but I fought the temptation to embrace them, reminding her that even the simple declaration she had given me as a test of membership, "I believe in Jesus as my lord and saviors," had deep and intertwining roots in systemic theology and in my mind Truth, with a capital T, does not coexist with ambiguity. For her, Truth can be thought of as the light at the end of a very long tunnel rather than a fire one is able to contain in one's hand and hold out to others. She challenged my belief that I had to or could even hope to figure it all out. For her, proselytizing meant helping those one might find naked, depressed, imprisoned and hungry toward that light. But the old hermeneutic dies hard, the voice of the Evangelical hollered back to me saying, "true, true, you won't be able to figure it out in your present state, you must be dead to the world and alive in Christ before you can see such a glorious Truth, but it is possible." I live in two worlds, I believe like the one and think like the other and the result is that I belong to neither.
This is the epiphany that came to me during our conversation. I have not been able to escape the faith, I may not be part of it salvifically, but it still defines me. Spong remarked that "Christianity must change or die," but it has always been my fervent belief that Christianity could do no such thing and therefore must die, or more accurately, I must die to it. I could not hope to change it and I could not change the perspective I had gained, so I left it. Now, Rev. Linda presented a compelling argument to the contrary in a way that challenging but not meant as a challenge. She understood all to well my struggle but she also discerned that I was a "pull yourself up by the bootstraps kind of guy," as she said.
And it's true; I want it to be hard. I want to suffer and struggle and present my life, wholly committed to and convinced of the Gospel, as an offering to Christ and I can't do that now. In this, Jeremy would applaud Rev. Linda's challenge to me. For he had remarked only weeks before, that he would not what me to return to the way I was in the faith; I can now see why he said that although at the time it seemed strange. But he knows that it is an all-consuming passion for me that burns out everything instead of warming those around it with a gentle glow. It is becoming clearer now, I feel the burden lessening, slightly, but at the same time, as I look up from this deep swell, I see a tremendous wave, a wall of churning water, forming before me, baring down on me with unimaginable force and I am being sucked towards its wake and I cannot see what is behind it but it appears insurmountable.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
The Seven Year Glitch
I was lying in bed last night and noticed an interesting trend in my life. An earlier remark that I made to my friend Frank is what initial sparked the realization that I am experiencing what has been called a seven-year itch. Although the term is most commonly used to describe the cyclical dissatisfaction men (and women) feel upon their seven year of marriage, I figured that since it was seven years ago (2000) that severe migraines heralded the reality that I was to graduate Bible college with ample debt but no faith to speak of and that for all intents and purposes my relationship with the faith has been much like a dysfunctional marriage, that I felt I could appropriate the term as a description of my experience.
It becomes even more disturbing as I follow the pattern backwards. It was in 1993 that I initially "returned" to the faith upon entering the Air Force after years, probably seven years to be exact, of teen aged rebellion starting when I was 13 in 1986. I could go even further with this dispensational interpretation of my life but it is painful enough to look back 21 years with out evaluating the balance that remains. There is not doubt that the proposition, that every seven years I experience a major shift in the way I live my life, is compelling. However, knowing that in no way brings me any comfort in my present circumstances. I recall all to intimately the torrent that accompanied each of those shifts, leaving me drained of all my knowledge, naked and empty handed on a foreign shore, forced to rebuild my perception anew before the next wave of doubt and disillusionment forced me to seek another refuge. Perhaps there is still hope that I can break this wrecked cycle.
It becomes even more disturbing as I follow the pattern backwards. It was in 1993 that I initially "returned" to the faith upon entering the Air Force after years, probably seven years to be exact, of teen aged rebellion starting when I was 13 in 1986. I could go even further with this dispensational interpretation of my life but it is painful enough to look back 21 years with out evaluating the balance that remains. There is not doubt that the proposition, that every seven years I experience a major shift in the way I live my life, is compelling. However, knowing that in no way brings me any comfort in my present circumstances. I recall all to intimately the torrent that accompanied each of those shifts, leaving me drained of all my knowledge, naked and empty handed on a foreign shore, forced to rebuild my perception anew before the next wave of doubt and disillusionment forced me to seek another refuge. Perhaps there is still hope that I can break this wrecked cycle.
Monday, June 11, 2007
The Last Temptation of Hope
I've had this revelation of late...it is not what I can't believe about Christianity that keeps me from the faith, but rather, ironically, it is what I believe to be true about Christianity that poses the greater barrier to my return. I mentioned in an earlier post that I might classify myself as a fundamentalist; I believe it is because of this latent fundamentalism that I am unable to genuinely consider a return to the faith. That Faith, with a capital F, to me is, for the most part, a clearly defined set of doctrines (orthodoxy) and practices (orthopraxy) of which I am no where near at this point. I question even if I desire to ever be there again, yet I am unable to break with old notions. And still I so desire to find a different path back; I can't bare to retrace my steps and it is impossible to navigate to the place from whence I started. Be that as it may, as tragic and touching as my words may be, I am convinced that my need, no matter how justified and palpable, neither creates nor ensures an answer to that need.
This may prove to be the final test of resignation, the last temptation of hope. I cannot return, in fact, I refuse to return simply to give my life the meaning it so desperately needs. I despise foxhole Christianity. I would have committed my life to Christ on each one of the flights I endured this past year the moment turbulence arose only to claim it again like baggage once I arrived safely at the terminal. Perfect love drives out all fear. And it is that love, the same love that one lays down one's life for his friends, the love that others will see Christ through, the love that makes meaningful the sound of the clanging cymbal and the resounding gong that is so elusive. But I can't help but wonder if it is that same love that is drawing me further in.
This may prove to be the final test of resignation, the last temptation of hope. I cannot return, in fact, I refuse to return simply to give my life the meaning it so desperately needs. I despise foxhole Christianity. I would have committed my life to Christ on each one of the flights I endured this past year the moment turbulence arose only to claim it again like baggage once I arrived safely at the terminal. Perfect love drives out all fear. And it is that love, the same love that one lays down one's life for his friends, the love that others will see Christ through, the love that makes meaningful the sound of the clanging cymbal and the resounding gong that is so elusive. But I can't help but wonder if it is that same love that is drawing me further in.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
The Dark Night of Abstraction
I finally responded to the email Rev. Linda sent the week after I attended St. Johns. Here is her email and my response to help document this unfolding relationship with the church. I have a feeling that from a future perspective this will take on a totally different meaning for me than it does at this moment in my life. It could be a joke, a passing phase, more distraction from distraction or a pathetic rush back to the familiar to rekindle the incombustible.
David –Good to see you again Sunday. I have given our conversation some thought this week…..my responses at this juncture are to suggest several things: 1. spiritual counseling 2. some reading…like “The Search for Meaning” by Thomas H. Naylor, William H. Willimon and Magdalene R. Naylor, Abingdon Press, 1994. I have a copy you can borrow. Another would be Henri Nouwen’s books….I have this one Nouwen book which is a compilation of selected writings of his….this was put together after his death. He struggled with lots of things. He was a Roman Catholic priest…a Jesuit by training. I only mention that because that is his tradition and obviously his writings reflect that tradition. Although some have said of him that his parish was the world ---- I think that was true really. He apparently was very open to folk of various traditions of faith (and I mean beyond Christianity). Anyway, I suggest this one just to give you a flavor and see if some of his writings prod your soul…if so, then you can go deeper. Oh, and the name of it is “Henri Nouwen”, Orbis, 1998. I also have that. I would be happy to talk with you….either via phone or face to face or if it works out, both. A crisis of the empty soul takes time and energy to fill. I’m willing to try and help as I can. Take care. Rev. Linda
My response:
Rev. Linda, I went with your suggestion and started reading Nouwen's Inner Voice of Love. Paradoxically, I feel rather numb, more accurately, I am very conscious of something I am obviously trying not to be aware of. I would like to talk further, although I can't promise that I will be able to offer much clarity, but I welcome your assistance. I work from home one Tuesdays and Thursdays, what would be a convenient time to meet for you? David
We decided on a date but I don't know exactly how to prepare for our meeting or if to prepare at all. I want to maintain the momentum, although if don't know if I am being pulled back down into the dark night of abstraction or dragged upward out of this relativistic bog to the Real.
David –Good to see you again Sunday. I have given our conversation some thought this week…..my responses at this juncture are to suggest several things: 1. spiritual counseling 2. some reading…like “The Search for Meaning” by Thomas H. Naylor, William H. Willimon and Magdalene R. Naylor, Abingdon Press, 1994. I have a copy you can borrow. Another would be Henri Nouwen’s books….I have this one Nouwen book which is a compilation of selected writings of his….this was put together after his death. He struggled with lots of things. He was a Roman Catholic priest…a Jesuit by training. I only mention that because that is his tradition and obviously his writings reflect that tradition. Although some have said of him that his parish was the world ---- I think that was true really. He apparently was very open to folk of various traditions of faith (and I mean beyond Christianity). Anyway, I suggest this one just to give you a flavor and see if some of his writings prod your soul…if so, then you can go deeper. Oh, and the name of it is “Henri Nouwen”, Orbis, 1998. I also have that. I would be happy to talk with you….either via phone or face to face or if it works out, both. A crisis of the empty soul takes time and energy to fill. I’m willing to try and help as I can. Take care. Rev. Linda
My response:
Rev. Linda, I went with your suggestion and started reading Nouwen's Inner Voice of Love. Paradoxically, I feel rather numb, more accurately, I am very conscious of something I am obviously trying not to be aware of. I would like to talk further, although I can't promise that I will be able to offer much clarity, but I welcome your assistance. I work from home one Tuesdays and Thursdays, what would be a convenient time to meet for you? David
We decided on a date but I don't know exactly how to prepare for our meeting or if to prepare at all. I want to maintain the momentum, although if don't know if I am being pulled back down into the dark night of abstraction or dragged upward out of this relativistic bog to the Real.
Friday, June 1, 2007
Safe and Useless
What really got to me in the song I mentioned in my previous entry was that it gave me a window into which I could see my own prosperity. I became painfully aware of my unawareness of my good fortune. Oddly, the words in a song were no longer describing my perceptions but those that others would have of me. Suddenly, the lyrics, “my best friend’s a doctor, how he has been blessed, drives a new Mercedes and always has the best” described my life but from someone else’s perspective. I felt soulless but carried along by some nurturing force that mercilessly relented from blessing me with what I truly deserved.
While Jeremy toiled, being robbed, threatened and humiliated, I fed my desires, albeit quietly but nonetheless without hesitation. I remember that I bought my first Mustang that same day Jeremy’s car was stolen and yet he shared my juvenile delight as I painted the streets that circled his small apartment with rubber and smoke. I also remember telling the salesperson that I desired a vehicle that was, “commensurate with my salary.” I had earned it.
The words of that song pierced me but I am not afraid as much as I am perplexed. Why me? I am surrounded by those whose financial needs are great but whose purposes are greater; yet, I sit comfortably on the sidelines in my designer trousers. But I’m not really comfortable; I just know that most people in my position would be and that gives me some type of indirect comfort. I feel as though I have lost touch with who I am or am supposed to be. I am the servant who buried his master’s treasure under a rock. It safe and utterly useless.
While Jeremy toiled, being robbed, threatened and humiliated, I fed my desires, albeit quietly but nonetheless without hesitation. I remember that I bought my first Mustang that same day Jeremy’s car was stolen and yet he shared my juvenile delight as I painted the streets that circled his small apartment with rubber and smoke. I also remember telling the salesperson that I desired a vehicle that was, “commensurate with my salary.” I had earned it.
The words of that song pierced me but I am not afraid as much as I am perplexed. Why me? I am surrounded by those whose financial needs are great but whose purposes are greater; yet, I sit comfortably on the sidelines in my designer trousers. But I’m not really comfortable; I just know that most people in my position would be and that gives me some type of indirect comfort. I feel as though I have lost touch with who I am or am supposed to be. I am the servant who buried his master’s treasure under a rock. It safe and utterly useless.
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