faith of Chinese farmers & that Christian

Somewhere, somehow I became that Christian. 

The one signing up for community service, but doesn't really need to the label of Christ-follower. The fashionably informed kind drinking free-trade coffee with soy milk, talking about this authentic, interesting book discussing the trials of Christians on the other side of the world. The one who would show up to drink the Kool-Aid, but refused to live on the compound.

Not an atheist, because I believe there is a God. I even believe He loves me. But not really a believer, either.

See,God said He has it all worked out, but the things He said don't make sense. If He was all perfect and right and infinitely wise, why can't He figure out a way to convey that in a way I get? I'm not asking for parted water or even universal health care. I just need my small, quiet life to work.

Not feeling like I'm trying to iceskate uphill in the middle of a blizzard would be a rockin' good start.

I tried not being a Christian for a while. In college, Buddhism beckoned, simple and pure. 

Kneel here, and stay. 

Be. 

The answers will come, or you will burn off enough dukkha to understand. 

There is a place, a goal, a point. 

So what if I have to burn off my individuality to get there? And really, who wouldn't want to surrender suffering to the universe, especially if it meant not having to feel anything?

Me, actually. Blame my family of engineers and intimate groups of overachievers, but if I'm going to hurt and strive for years during this lifetime alone, I need it to show for something.

I need more than a goal. I need a destination, a place to rest. 

Where the struggles strengthen others, and I am not one of tapioca-same millions or billions who decided feeling nothing was a just reward for feeling things they didn't like. 

And couldn't control.

Since I can't be that Buddhist, I'm back to being that Christian. Birthed, married (maybe), and buried under the Name. Wish the living were as settled.

But still trying to protect God from Himself. He said there's a plan and a hope, but I've heard that before - and got screwed. I'm not surrounded by perfect gods. I live with imperfect, more-than-slightly skewed humans.

I can see how the alternative to the all-consuming imperfection shows the absolute need for divine perfection. I just don't think I'd know if I saw it.


I can almost guarantee I wouldn't believe it, and trusting it would almost require more than voting Republican. And I hate that I have become that Christian.

So I sit in my comfortable, stylish chair, humming some new modern hymn, wishing for the faith of Chinese farmers. 

my problem

I have a serious problem. With God, and because of Him.

When I was a kid, I thought God saw me like His personal podcast or youtube channel. I thought He saw everyone like that: He saw all of us, each at our own time and wherever He’d placed us. If He was looking for something cool and funny, He’d flip over to the Anne Lamott Station. Or if it was a rough day and He needed to unplug a bit, He’d catch a little Jeff Dunham.  And I’d imagine He had the Big Bang on TiVo, just watching it on loop.

He knows us, created us, so He could skip the commercials and the in-between parts. If He knew I was going to mess up (and you know, He’s God, so…), He could just pause, catch a little Katt Williams, and come back to me later. He’d catch my show later, totally be there for me… just after He had a little space, a little God-time to prepare.

But here’s what I realized is an issue with living my life with that idea in my head: I can cheat. A lot.

If God’s not watching because I’m not as funny as Mr. Williams, or as entertaining as Ms. Lamott and her M&M fascination, then I can totally slide. Maybe it’s not obvious, maybe it doesn’t really look like that.  Maybe it just looks like I have Ooo-Bright-Shiny (OBS) syndrome.

And maybe He can catch up on my issues and episodes, but it’s not the same.

If I live my life like that (which I can since God does), I’m constantly waiting for the moment God hits the play button again. My life is on inconsistent pause; I’m being a lifetime slacker.

It’s ok, I tell myself, to not write down that idea. It’ll come back later, when God hits the play button again. I don’t really have to make the effort to do something I know I should. It can be caught the next go-round.

Except I only get one go-round. And God doesn’t use a pause button.

So now I’m back to being 34 and just now realizing that I slack when I should lean; I question when I should keep walking.

I fear when I should trust.

And that’s the serious problem. I’m far more Ok with the idea that God gets as bored and irritated by me as I do with Him rather than actually accepting He loves me.

In my darkest, most selfish places, I want God to be as shallow and inconsistent as I am. And I don’t know what to do when I find out yet again that He’s not.

Except to pause everything else and apologize. Then do something different.

And admit, I have a problem – with God and because of Him.

quiet, sacrifice, hope

Quiet bugs me.


Quiet feels like nothing happening, nothing changing. Quiet feels like nothingness, like I don't exist or that I'm waiting to exist again.


Quiet tells the truth and makes me wallow in it. Which terrifies me.


I loved quiet once, embraced it with an adoration usually saved for shoes and chocolate.


Quiet now means lacking, means my gizmos are not working; people aren't tweeting or updating something.


Quiet differs from silence. Silence can mean that something just did happen, and whatever it is requires a moment to recover, to emphasize the loud, the energy. Silence is temporary, but quiet stretches out, taking up space and time, filling it with... nothing.


Quiet requires sacrifice, a horrible word. Sacrifice is a process done in quiet, resulting in eternal echoes. Sacrifice means that there was something present that is not now, and that I chose to surrender it. If it's quiet, then space was created with things and sounds and distractions removed. It means that the need for quiet, to face truth has overwhelmed everything else, and driven me to a solemn, desert-like place.


Quiet sacrifice means that something gnawed at me until I couldn't ignore it.


Quiet means sacrificing what distracts and numbs me to find what gives me life. Quiet means the busy-ness of life must be surrendered.


Surrender is another unpopular word right now. Society screams, shines the idea that there's no reason for surrender. You're beautiful. Everyone is beautiful. You deserve everything you want.


If a product doesn't give you everything want in it, replace it. You deserve better.


If a lover doesn't give you everything you want, replace him. Or her. Or them. You deserve to be happy. So do they. You're really doing the best thing because everyone deserves to be happy. All the time.


But between that message and the next; at the period of the sentence is quiet. 


Quiet softly states that life is hard. People disappoint. Not everything is beautiful or fixable or meant to be.


Quiet defines and removes. Quiet, like winter, comes at its own time and leaves the same way.


And in quiet, sacrifice looks different. Sacrifice offers no resolution, but instead requires time and effort. But even in the offering, sacrifice provides a different path, and quietly remakes the offerer.


Solemn, quiet sacrifice embodies and infuses the in-between of winter and spring. Sacrificing snow to rainy, dreamy days of hushed gray sky, quiet prepares the way for growth and green. Fields of wildflowers. Eggs and chocolate and Easter.


Hope.


That thing with feathers of the soul doesn't live in prettily packaged containers, doesn't survive on perpetual pleasure. It's not featured on sale, or spotted in the place to be seen.


Hope rests in the quiet places of the soul, where sacrifice has cleared out the unneeded and prepared space for the Divine.


Quiet.
Prepare.
Sacrifice.


Always, always.


Hope.