Divine Plagiarism

11 March 2008

An open letter to my accuser (revised.)

This letter started as a counter-accusation, an attempt to defend myself from her words through my own wit and so-called wisdom. It became, as of more than a year ago, an expression of honesty and growth that perhaps could not have happened any other way. It is appropriate, I think, to leave this letter at the beginning of all of these writings as a marking of the incomplete story at the heart of them all. May this story be brought to completion in His time, and may that completion include a real reconciliation. This remains my prayer.

I could not see how wrong I was. That does not mean that I was not right. Rightness and wrongness mixed together and became dissonance. I have no answers any more, no counter-arguments. You can think of me what you wish. It is between you and God. But I will pray with all my heart for reconciliation. I will own this brokenness, as far as I can, and I will bring it to God and lay it at His wounded feet. I will pray that His blood would wash over both of us, healing both of us, undoing the terrible wounds we have inflicted upon each other.

I pray for many miracles here. One is that He would meet my desires. I am in love with you, and I will not be ashamed of that any more, ever again. But if you never respected my heart, I never respected your will. And I was wrong not to. Learning this respect, there is a difference between reconciliation and my desire for you. There is a world where this war is ended, but I do not run from my heart. It is not one where we are the best of friends, but it is one where we are honest with ourselves and each other. I will pray accordingly.

There are no sides. There never were. There is Him, and He is all, and we both greatly fell short of Him. I am a man. I finally acknowledge my role. I take responsibility.

I am sorry that I hurt you. You are His precious daughter. May He and you forgive me.

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20 February 2008

A Marking.

This is written freeform. (Other writing is consuming most of my creative time and energy.) I want to record this thought before I learn and grow and evolve further, I want to remember this thought even beyond the end (or new beginning) of this story.

'God, purify my love for Christine. If nothing is left of it, then it was a selfish love and no great loss. But it if remains, then it is of You and I will hold to it. Either way, bless her beyond her wildest dreams.'

Love is thicker than death, so it must be thicker than pain. I am no longer afraid to love her. And I am no longer afraid to leave all of this behind. Love always finds its way home, and my heart will find its way to the woman I am meant to love. So I will trust Him with my heart, and I will follow my heart wherever it leads me.

Wurmbrandt once wrote that only those who dive into deep waters find pearls. I stand on the shore no longer.

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21 December 2007

Reflections. (Mid-Course Update.)

I seem to generally write when I find answers. This time I write with only questions.

Praying the same prayer for two years running, I suppose I had assumed I would find an answer by now. I have found other prayers, prayers that she would be blessed, prayers that God would protect her from danger, but I still have the prayer I began with: ‘God, change my heart or change hers…’ He has answered the first part, beyond anything I could have imagined. Answered with brokenness, answered with healing, answered with courage, answered with intimacy, answered with a hundred blessings. But He has not turned my heart away from her. No other pray has lasted this long, and if it were stupid chemicals then surely they would have burned themselves out by now. I cannot say I understand.

A few things I do understand better. I felt that it was His will at the outset that I should not know anything about her save in my prayers. I have held to that (a friend of mine did promise to let me know if she gets married, which I will of course consider an answer.) Now I understand the wisdom in that command, even the love in it. A friend of mine once described the way she treated me as ’scorn and contempt.’ I disagreed at the time, perhaps I still do. ’An undue loyalty to one’s fears,’ I think I would call it now… it was a sin I had in common with her. Regardless, I was showing her no love by allowing her to treat me the way she did. I would have loved her far better by preventing her from dishonoring herself in the way she continued to treat me. I would have loved her better had I set and enforced better boundaries. Perhaps, though a bit too late, I have learned that lesson: that same friend ended up reading her blog, and apparently there was an entry concerning me that was pretty vicious. I believe that I have honored and loved C. better by not reading it, by not allowing her to hurt me again in the ways she intended to. I wish I had learned sooner, for if I have done the right thing once, it is only in light of doing the wrong thing a hundred times.

We magnify sin when we spread it in relationship, I think, as we drag others into parallel or complimentary sins. We choose to hate, another chooses to hate back, and now two people hate. What if the other chooses to refuse to accept the hate? What if they choose to be free of it? Then only one person is guilty, and the guilt of that person is no longer compounded in provoking another to sin. Perhaps then it can be reconciled with less difficulty, as the sin is only between that person and God. Of course, for the two to be reconciled, just as Haugen and Mandela say, there must be truth first. There must be a trial to give a pardon, and I have no doubt that in that trial, both of us are gravely guilty. Praise God that His blood is sufficient. Of course, both people must choose to show up to receive their pardon. I have received my pardon from God for wronging His daughter, and my relationship with Him is reconciled. I have received no pardon from her, nor has she taken my pardon, so there is no reconciliation and no peace between us. I am not sure what I can do to make peace more than what has already been done, and I am honestly scared to do anything. I fear offering anything to her in vulnerability, given how she has responded to that vulnerability in the past. I do not know if this is a wise fear, or if it is simply my cowardice and desire to remain safe speaking.

This much, at least, is good: I am not afraid to love her. This has been a five year story. Three years, I did everything I could to squash that feeling. I ran into work, I ran into one or two foolish very short term relationships, I kept hoping I would find the girl which would let me forget her, I ran and ran and ran. It was all cowardice. And it took me away from God. The last two years, when all hope has failed, I have hoped in God for lack of another choice. And it has driven me into His arms. It terrifies me to love her. Every time I pray for her, I find my hopes and my fears at war. But it is the best prayer I have prayed.

I have grown in ways I couldn’t have imagined, have become someone I had only heard in dreams and echoes. New Dave isn’t the same as Old Dave. Praise God. And New Dave has the wisdom to see that Old Dave should not have been with Old C., to know that New Dave will not be with Old C. out of honor for her. Accordingly, I have left behind everything I knew of Old C. No letters, no emails, no pictures, no shrapnel remains. But perhaps what I saw in her in shadows, someone astonishing and fearless and brilliant, has consumed her old fears, perhaps she is a New C. And this is my hope. Though, if I ever understood anything about her, I would guess that it will take her breaking herself upon something immovable before she finds brokenness (she and I always were equally stubborn.) So this is my prayer tonight, a prayer that I could not have prayed at the beginning of this thing, a prayer that is beautiful if it is pure, but vicious if it is stained with malice. I pray that she would find brokenness. The last words I said to her in the first cycle of this thing were (I didn‘t know they would be the last words at the time, four years ago: ) ‘May God bless C. F., for she is named for Someone whom I love. May her back be strong and her heart be pure.’ The perfected prayer is ‘May God bless C. F., for she is someone whom I love. May she find brokenness and her true strength.’ I pray this for her whether or not she and I ever reconcile. It is given freely, with no expectations of reciprocity.

But I am still here, and this is not some academic exercise in agape. I guess this is what is scary about the whole thing. I am generally good at seeing where something is going before I get there. That has not been true about anything in this story. But God has shown himself faithful. And I still believe that He will answer my prayer. C. is His daughter, and she is in His hands. I will not wrestle Him for her. He can worry about her, something gives me the sense that I would be better not knowing. I know the foolishness that I went through on my path to brokenness. I pray that she is less foolish than me, or at least I pray that God shields her from the full consequences of foolishness, as He did for me. But I will not know anything save through my prayers. This ends in God’s time, on His terms. I hope with all my heart there will be a miracle. I would be my greatest honor to pursue her heart, and as I once told her, I would still fight through hell to find it. I do still love her. But if that miracle is a change of my heart, then I embrace it. Perhaps if I am asking for a stone, then He will give me bread instead. I don’t have a clue. But I will not seek answers on my own anymore. So if I have learned anything, I have learned Whom to ask. My heart still tells me that one way or another, there is still more to this story. So I ask Him also for an ending, one worthy of five (or more) years of sweat and tears that have been poured into this story. I cannot write that ending… He is an infinitely better Author.

I will hold on until He writes it, and then I will close the book, whether to pick up part two, or to begin another series entirely. If yes, then I will know it when I see it… and then I’ll set out on the far scarier endeavor of human intimacy… may He strengthen my heart and give me courage then. But if no, I ask for a clear no, one with no hope whatsoever, one where there is no romantic movie happy ending. I feel selfish asking this, but one where I forget about her, where my memories go cold, and I have a hard time remembering her name. Strangely enough, passing through another base on the way here, I ran into a girl with whom I had an mis-romantic collision a few years back (also a pilot.) That interaction was something of a ugly comedic echo of everything that went wrong with C., but it only took a month or so. I found it amusing, not in any vindictive sense, but more in a ’things don’t hurt forever’ sense, that I couldn’t remember her name. So we had very surface conversation, I said hi, she said sort of hi and more a lot of whining about flying tankers (refueling aircraft,) so I said bye and she said sort of bye. And then in an hour I forgot I ran into her, and she returned to the netherworld of memories that you can only pull up with a lot of effort. In the light of that numbness, I found it strangely easy to wish her blessings and wish her well. So if God’s answer is no, I pray with all my heart that I forget C. the same way. I will not have my future wife fight with her ghost. May the story be stored away as a closed book, as processed data, as a completed story with no loose ends. May anything good I remember of her be simply echoes of things a thousand times more true of the woman He gives me. (Of course, if He answers yes, the same remains true. I saw flashes of someone absolutely amazing in C. If God does a miracle between her and I, then I pray that He has brought out the diamond in the rough in her.)

There is another prayer, one where I am much more sure of His will. Reconciliation is always the heart of God. I want peace in the cold war between she and I as much as I want peace in the hot war that I am fighting. Even if that is the ending of the story, I desire peace. I don’t know what else I can do. To approach her is to be attacked, she has made that clear in no uncertain terms. I have offered apologies, and she has forbidden those apologies and attacked. So I have sent one message in two years seeking reconciliation, one that I sent at Urbana before communion, and she has disregarded it. I do not know what else to do, so I fall back on ‘in so far as it depends on you, live at peace with each other.’ I do not suppose it depends on me anymore. But I pray nonetheless. It is sad that the deep rifts between Cambridge and Colorado Springs have found such a perfect case study. But I will pray, because I don’t know anything else to do. The only answer that respects both her will and my heart seems to be continuing in my prayer until God answers it.

I guess this is an answer then. Continue. It seems to have worked so far, at least better than any of the answers I’ve tried. I can’t say this is completely satisfying. Though I don’t suppose it’s supposed to be. I will learn to trust God as I keep falling off this cliff, until He teaches me that I can fly.

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06 October 2007

Shorter Paths (Part 2.)

The more I learn about each of our and all of our histories, the more I realize there are only a couple of stories. There are different stages for each rendition, varied props and assorted casts of extras, but ultimately Solomon is right: there is nothing new under the sun. So we choose our roles and we play them to whatever end. And this is where the analogy fails: Fantine dies on the five hundredth night of Les Miserables as surely as she does on the first. In each retelling Valjean finds redemption and Javert does not. One singer may play Marius well, another poorly, but he will always marry Cosette. A character’s lines are unchanging… you are judged by how well you perform them; you can affect quality but not outcome. It does not seem that our stories are quite as fixed.

Perhaps, then, we live in a football game. The way we play determines the outcome. It is not enough to stay within the prescribed rules of the game… no one has ever won a football game simply by not incurring penalties. But many have lost a game by doing so. So within the boundaries of the field, we write a free-flow drama where actions determine outcomes. The quality of the game is determined by the play of both sides in concert, while the outcome of the game is determined by the play of both sides in opposition. And here this analogy fails as well: I cannot imagine our Adversary demonstrating good sportsmanship.

So we are caught in between. Improvised interpretations of a theme, vignettes balanced upon the edge of a knife. Somewhere in between sport and drama is combat. You know the script, but your adversary is constantly trying to thwart your plans. Only skill and wisdom lie between a successful mission and a flaming wreckage. So we are the tightrope walkers, balanced by God’s council, on our way across a canyon. But wisdom is no dictator, and gravity is more than willing to do its duty. Let us then be thankful for the safety net of God’s grace.

There’s one thing worse than completely sucking at something. That’s finding someone who just did a great job at the thing you sucked at. That is, unless and until you can find the humility to learn from them. And then it becomes the best thing.

The story was far more common than I had realized. I’ve seen two near verbatim retellings of my story in the lives of my friends, along with countless variations on the theme. One is still in process… I pray she finds the courage to end it well (and I pray that he finds any courage at all.) The second, well, it ended quite well. And in this is a quite significant revelation: one person can change the quality of the story greatly, but it takes two people to change the outcome.

It’s an ancient equation: the will and heart mismatch. One person desires the other as more than friends, and the other desires only friendship. Throw in a little bit of human fallenness, and the story usually includes the ’just-friends’ character offering and taking more than they really should, and the ‘more-than-friends’ character asking more than they really should. There’s only a couple ways that it can end, really. One may change their will, and they become more than friends. The other may find their heart changed, and they stay just friends. Of course, if neither change, the interaction must at some point end. The courage and honor that both characters show toward each other determine the manner of ending.

I can tell you how to end it poorly. Have the ‘just-friends’ character start telling the other how they should feel. Use interaction as a weapon in order to manipulate their feelings. And then have the ‘more-than-friends’ character start telling the other what they should do. Have them both resent the other, one resenting the other’s will for not respecting their heart, the other resenting their counterpart’s heart for not respecting their will. Throw in a dash of pride, ensuring that neither looks inside to find the source of the dissonance. Garnish it all with selfishness, where one offers inappropriate emotional intimacy outside of any real commitment, and the other eagerly accepts it as an avenue to their heart. Shake it all up, add some heat, and stand back.

In retrospect, I may be able to tell you how to end it better. Have the ’more-than-friends’ character guard their own heart. Have them relinquish their heart into God’s hands, and trust His plan and His timing. Have them respect their own heart enough to safeguard it for someone who will treasure it, have them respect the other’s decisions as legitimate. Have them become secure enough in God to realize that He loves the other more than they possibly could, to realize that God does not need our help to accomplish His will, to realize that God does not give us desires in vain. And have them prepare to walk away if they need to, realizing that walking away may be the best way to honor the other if the other has no intention to honor you. First and foremost, have them learn contentedness.

Notice that the outcome does not change. Only the quality of the story and the collateral damage. This is not saying that the outcome cannot change. But that takes two people.

And this is the story of my two friends. Reading the account of their relationship was almost like reading my own, except in an alternate universe where everything ends well. Perhaps more accurately, in this universe between two people far less proud and far more willing to honor each other. They honor God and each other at every step, even when they are navigating their own fears. It is almost the same exact transcripts, the same songs, the same stories, but without the broken trust and venom. And with a lot more courage on both parts.

There are only a few stories and only a few endings. One will or one heart will eventually change. Yet even in this is a trap. Outcomes can only be reached together, but we are responsible only for our own actions. Concern yourself with outcomes, and you will inevitably desire to change the other. But they are not yours to change, they are God’s alone, unless and until He entrusts them to you. So concern yourself with obedience, and God will change you both.

Will v. Heart. One wins and one loses, it almost seems. No wonder it becomes adversarial. God is the only one who can break this paradox. In His plan, if one wins, the other doesn’t lose. If they both honor God, they will find the patience to let the story play out If they trust Him, they will learn to face their fears. If they honor each other, they will save each other much pain.

There was a person I one knew quite well, one who looks exactly like me (if a bit younger) who would have been jealous of my friends. ‘This should have been my story.’ But this was their story, and rightfully so. You see, ‘my’ is singular. ‘Theirs’ is plural. And this was the problem all along. What I wanted. Not what she wanted. Not how I could honor her. What I wanted. The fact that she and I had this in common does not make it right for either of us.

My heart was broken. Praise God. It was the greatest blessing that I never wanted, the difference between Old and New Dave. So I add one prayer: ‘break her will.’ May this be the greatest blessing that she never wanted. May it be the difference between Old and New C. This is the costliest and most precious blessing that I can give her… it was the costliest and most precious blessing that I received.

That boy has passed away. And for the better. Looking back, there was no way Old Dave and Old C. could have ever honored each other. They were both too scared, too arrogant and too selfish to reach outside of their safe worlds. Unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable both. Looking back, there is no way New Dave can honor Old C. beyond distance and prayers. But perhaps, and this is my deepest hope, New Dave and New C. can meet each other again for the first time. Perhaps the same story with two much improved characters can find a much better ending. But it is out of my hands. And my prayer remains the same: ‘change my heart or change hers.‘ Nonetheless, I am content here. I already have Everyone that I need.

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03 August 2007

Hardest Thing I Ever Did.

Looking over the story of C., I once compared memories of her to shrapnel. As our interaction exploded into a million pieces, words took on sharp edges and penetrated deep beneath my skin, still red hot with her hatred. So I took a piece of her with me. Whether I wanted to or not.

With as terrible as things were between her and I, it is easy to forget that not all similar interactions are similarly bloody. Any time your path and another’s path wrap around each other, you take a piece of them with you. There are places and words and things that remain. They are not always shrapnel.

‘I will be a part of you meeting your husband. And you will be a part of my meeting my wife.’ I said these words to N., sitting on a riverbank in the Ukraine, seven years ago. I rejoiced in that then. I rejoice in our friendship even now. I know that I brought something of her with me. Maybe more than I knew. I hope I gave her something in return.

From time to time, I am still reminded of her. Of who I was then, and who she was then. We are not so different now from the way we were then. We are completely different now from the way we were then. We were just kids, maybe. Maybe we still are kids. I’m not sure that’s so bad.

I loved her. I knew it with my whole mind, my whole heart and my whole body. Of late, I think I bought into the idea of forgetting the previous beloved in the light of the new one. Probably because of C. If C. is not my wife, then I truly desire nothing of her to remain, all of my feeling for her to be subsumed by my love for my spouse. I realize, though, that sometimes people act with honor and kindness and courage. Sometimes, it is worth holding onto a piece of your love. That if they loved you back, you do not rob your wife of love to still love them. You just get that much more love for your wife. I am proud and honored to have loved N. She is an amazing woman, kind and courageous, and I treasure the time we spent together as undeclared more-than-friends. Even if it is a place that I cannot return to.

Looking back, I think I lived in the aftershocks of her for four years. She was all I knew of loving a woman. In that, I was in no way impoverished. But you cannot live always looking backwards. We were friends, but I don’t think my heart ever really believed it all the way. I think my heart believed that in calling each other friends, she and I could remain close to each other, and that was what my heart wanted. I don’t know how she felt. I don’t know if I should have asked.

We were both in a safe place, I think. We had stayed there for a while. So I suppose I should not have found it that surprising when God said ‘move.’ Really, He more said ‘decide.’ Before flying out to see her the last time, I felt like God was telling me ‘I will give her someone else, if you don’t act.’ Not that He was saying do or don’t. He was saying ‘choose.’ You can’t stay in a halfway place forever.

So two months later, I was kneeling on a Moscow balcony, tears streaming down my face, listening to Miracle by Vertical Horizon. Praying. I knew the choice. He said that He would bless us if I went with her. She is a good woman. I loved her. She was everything I knew of love. We were good together. Things would go well for us. But He told me He had something else for me, something crazy, but He would not let me see it. And it was the hardest choice of my life.

I think I understand something more about that. If I had gone with her, I would not have wanted to see the road not traveled. No academic questions, I would be there with her, and she would have been my path, and all of my heart would belong there. There would have been no ‘what ifs.’

A gifting you are not willing to use can become a curse. Unless she has changed, C. makes choices from her deep fears. One of those choices may be marriage, a safe one where she will not be challenged, where she can try to prove all the things she wants to the world and (unsuccessfully) to herself. This is not a path that is compatible with the deep dreams and destiny I saw in her. Were that to happen, (perhaps it already has,) my prayer would be that He would take her destiny and her deep dreams from her in her sleep, so that she would be at peace with the choice she made, so that she could inhabit her life and be all the way there. Not thinking about paths that she could never again walk.

This would have been true for me, though in much better terms. If I was with N., I would have been all the way with her. And it would have been good.

But, good as it may have been, that was not my choice. Maybe I was right. Maybe I was wrong. Certainly both possibilities have crossed my mind on this journey. Maybe it would have not even worked. But I doubt that. I always felt very comfortable and very natural with her. She said the same of me. Perhaps more of us would have fit together as easily as our conversations did. Perhaps this is too much. I will leave this line of thought, for I will not inhabit with my mind a place that I have left behind with my choices.

So this is the road less traveled. Praying about this choice, the path felt like falling off a cliff. It has lived up to expectations. I don’t know how it goes, nor how it ends. But I know He is here. (Of course, He would have been on the other path too.) All I know is Christ, and Him crucified. I thought I knew a lot more before.

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02 August 2007

On The Dangers of Cardiac Amputation.

This is clearly edited somewhat from its original form. I am guarded about certain aspects of my life. I make no apologies for that. But I hope I retained enough honesty to make this useful. May God's love and peace be with you.

In ‘That Hideous Strength,‘ Lewis describes in dreams and allegory the problem with letting someone into your world: they tend to disturb things. They add, share and claim. They entwine themselves around whatever you choose to share with them. And when you want to banish them, you have to face questions of custody.

So she got in my head. Of course she did. And I let her, even invited her. The most precious places, the most guarded dreams. LOTR. Star Wars. ‘I would die for my faith.’ Some she didn’t even know that she claimed. ‘I want to retire to the Middle East to be a missionary.’ She chose a tattoo of a symbol that I used as a signature for two years. She put flowers in a [certain caliber] howitzer shell. My very thoughts, which she seemed to be able to finish (and is the only one so far to do so.) These things were mine. These were my dreams, my peculiarities, the special things that made me unlike anyone else. My own. To be guarded. And with her words, she insinuated herself between me and them, even unknowingly. They were not hers to take, and she took them nonetheless. There were parts of me that changed, parts of me that were added. But there were older parts, parts that were mine before she became a part of them.

To squash ones heart. To amputate. It was standard ops, really. Want to let someone go, get rid of their pictures, throw out everything that reminds you of them, burn all traces of them from your life. And it usually worked. The thing was that it was rare that they could find any real parts of me. Most of me was hidden in plain sight. I said many words, but the real words were buried between them. So they never had any real access to my heart. When I cut them out of my life, the memory withered quickly. There might have been a word or two, a place or two that reminded me, but the memories for all intents and purposes were gone. But it didn’t work here. It frustrated me to no end… it should have worked. But really, I don’t think I knew much about myself.

She had entwined herself around my heart in more ways than I had realized, even if she did so unintentionally. She is from [a certain state] and her family still lives there. My job takes me to the one stable job [in my career field,] located in [that same state.] I watch Pride and Prejudice, and fall in love with the movie. And then I discover that it is one of her favorites too. I dream dreams, and she dreams the same dreams with different flavors. [My specialty and my profession] was mine. And she, the cultural anthropologist, decides to research [a topic directly related to both of those.] Perhaps, on some level, I came here to get away from her. Yet even here she wrapped herself around my dreams. And it was not fair.

It should not have surprised me, then, knowing anything about myself, that running from my desires would require me to run from my heart. It was not a question of simple withering. Somehow she got inside. Somehow she got through my defenses, my walls that had kept others out so effectively. I was so safely alone, and she comes in and teases me with hope. Perhaps these most intimate places would be shared with someone. Perhaps these deepest desires would be met. But sharing was the farthest thing from what actually happened. It was much more like taking. So I ran. And I killed my heart, over and over. My scalpel had to cut through so many layers to remove her, that I couldn’t recognize what was left. And it didn’t stay dead. As I held it down, it sought fulfillment in career, in a girl or two, in anything that was safe, for she was not safe, and not safe had cut me so deeply.

I begin to understand the hatred in her email. It was not anything I said. It was that I did the same thing to her that she had done to me. I found a way through her defenses, and wrapped myself around her dreams with my words. And I was not welcome. Narnia was hers. Aravis and Cor was her story. Darcy and Lizzy was her story. Not mine to take. They were hers and hers alone. She would control them, and she would not have anyone change them. No one would penetrate her defenses, or disturb her guarded world. So she slashed wildly with her scalpel, hacking on any targets in range. My honor, my character, my friendships, my identity. Anything she could attack she attacked, with fury and hatred. I had interfered with her dreams the same way she had interfered with mine.

And I begin to understand my own selfishness, seeing it in her. No one was invited in, because they would disturb my dreams, wrapping themselves around them. But I interfered in their world, I disturbed their dreams, for the better or for the worse. I denied them myself, always critiquing from afar, always giving when it was safe, when I had plenty more, never asking, never needing, never dependent. This was my world, and they were not invited in. For here I was safe. For here I was in control. For here I was god. And so my idolatry was her idolatry: an idolatry of safety.

Perhaps this is why this current struggle has led to such better outcomes: that idol has been thrown down. I could not amputate her from my heart: I tried three times. And I was tired of letting my heart die. So I gave it to Him. He made it, and perhaps where I could not pry her off, He could release her cords, and remake my heart. And all the passion and desire that I was so afraid of would be mine again. But mine to give away. I am fighting for my wife. I will passionately love her with all of my heart. And God is the only one who can ensure I have all of it to give to her. So this is my prayer: ‘change my heart or change hers.; I am tired of trying to amputate parts of my heart. God will release me of my desire for her, or perhaps we will share in those places where we are already entwined. Either way, I will love my wife with all of my heart. However this turns out. May His will be done. I do pray, though, if it’s over, that He would tell me. That I would not fight on in vain. He is not cruel. I have to believe that. I choose to believe that. God promises, He does not tease. Even if I don’t know what I really want yet (and even if I think that I do.)

//

Looking back over this post, two things strike me. I’ll share the less important of two first. If you want to hide something from radar, you can go about it one of three ways. You can reflect away all the radar waves, stealth-style, so that none of them ever find their way back to their sender. You can use deception jamming, sending out a bunch of signals to confuse the radar operator. Or you can use noise jamming, make so much noise that nobody can see the signal that you’re trying to hide. I’ve seen stealth, where a person blends into the background, becoming a wallflower to stay safe from their insecurities. I’ve seen deception jamming, where a person puts up a front or a number of fronts to hide their real (and really insecure) self. But C. and I both chose noise jamming. On a number of levels. We could make so much intellectual noise that no one could burn through it. We could talk and act so loudly (which seemed to come naturally to both of us) that nobody could burn through and hear the still, small voice of who we really were. We could both broadcast swept-spectrum, high-amplitude noise, and it kept anyone from seeing who we really were. Which was the point all along. Rarely has fear been so loud, I think. Done with the former, on to the latter.

Three days after I wrote this post, I get an email from [a prominent figure in missions,] asking for thoughts on indigenous missions work in Brazil. It occurred to me briefly that she would have been a valuable resource, and that it is sad that we could not have written it in partnership. But God provided nonetheless. Perhaps it would have been better with her. I even prayed that if she was married, we would still reconcile in time to work on this together (and then leave at peace to not talk again.) But it was what it was, and I’m sure God’s grace covered it. Re-reading this post, though, it strikes me that I was more right than I could have known. She wrapped herself around my dreams, but I remember that she dreamed very strongly about ’re-locating to South America for missions work.’ This was her dream, and I stole it. I didn’t mean to, didn’t plan on it, and it didn’t even occur to me that I had done so until after it was done. I don’t know what any of this means. I would have liked to share it with her, but as things stand, I cannot and I will not. I don’t trust her… I think that her deep fears make her more of a liability than anything. I claim no objectivity, certainly, but she has too many wars with herself and with God to bring peace to anyone. As do I, most likely. I wish that we were not at war. May God do a miracle here. This is my hope. I would like to fight with her at my side, rather than her at my back.

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01 August 2007

Agape (Part 2.)

A scene from a much happier story comes to mind. It was not the scene that was happier, but the story. The scene was actually remarkably difficult but remarkably important. So I am sitting in a bathtub in a Ukrainian apartment with tears running down my face. Wrestling with God. Not like ‘bless me’ wrestling, more like ‘I don’t like how You run the universe’ wrestling.

Something stupid started it. I think N. wouldn’t invite me to sit next to her in church. Something little and dumb. But for some reason it ended up being important. It started to mean that ‘I wasn’t special to her. I was just some guy.’ It started to mean that I was mistaken to listen to my heart, that my heart wasn’t trustworthy, that I should have stayed safely alone and let my head kill my heart yet again so that I wouldn’t be hurt. So this was the argument with God: ‘I thought You told me to do this thing!’ ‘Why isn’t this working the way You said it would?’ ‘I finally find someone that I love, after all these years, I finally find a story that is mine, and You take it away!’ ‘Why are you taunting me, offering me my desires and then pulling it away?’ And so on.

Two hours I think it was, beating the air with fists, like Paul says. The storm raging, and the tempest coming out in my words. Until I have one thought: ‘God, I don’t care if she loves me. I love her.’ I shout it defiantly under my breath. But I am not defying Him… I defy my fears. And in a moment the storm is calmed. I feel Him answer: ‘That is the right answer. That is what you needed to learn.’ Half an hour later, I called her. We had a good conversation, and it turned out that the supposed snub that morning was nothing. And the story progressed from there.

I don’t think that there’s any chance that I can call now in this story and find out that it was all a misunderstanding. There was no misunderstanding C.‘s words. She wanted to wound me, wanted to scar me, wanted to hurt me. There was no innocent explanation. Her words were death and were intended to be so. Mine were not tremendously kind, as well. So I cannot chalk the whole thing up to a mis-communication. We communicated exactly what we intended, and we intended to hurt each other. I don’t like it, but that doesn’t do much to change it. But that does not change the truth I learned in that Ukrainian bathtub on the nature of love. Love is unconditional. Only its expression is reciprocal.

‘I love her. I don’t care what she thinks about me.’ I claim this. I do love her. I ask God to purify that love, so that it looks a little less like hatred. If hatred is love plus fear, than I ask Him to strip away my fears. They are actually justified, though, in the light of my own strength. She has the capacity and has shown the willingness to wound me deeply. It is prudent to fear such a thing. But perfect love casts out all fear. And God’s strength is infinite, as is His grace. He surely has given me more than my fair share. So in the light of His grace, there is no cause to fear. There is nothing that she can do to me that He cannot cover, that He cannot atone for, that He cannot make right. Therefore I will not fear.

And I don’t care what she thinks about me. I have a pretty good idea, based on our last conversation, if one could really call it that. She can hate me all she wants. She can call me whatever names she wants. She can poison our mutual acquaintanceships all she wants. She can do whatever she wants, it is between her and God. But I do not need her approval to love her. And I do not need her approval to pray blessings over her. So even if I choose to love her by not expressing that love in anything but prayer, I will love her nonetheless. God’s love for me was not reciprocal. My love for her will not be reciprocal. I have no expectation of return. My expression of that love, of course, must be reciprocal. Well, sort of. She has expressed hatred toward me. I will not return it. But as long as she chooses to leave things broken between us, I will respect her choice. Even if I think she’s wrong to do so.

Here’s the thing. What do I lose by loving her? Absolutely nothing. I am driven to the feet of the Cross to ask for a faith, hope and love that I do not have, and in the process I am filled with His love. This is a good thing. In the asking I find brokenness, a quality that had been absent from my walk for quite some time. What do I lose by hating her? Much. My heart turns to ice, I rebuild my defenses, I become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. I know. I’ve done it before. So I will love her. I do not expect it to ever be returned. But I hope that it will be.

Perhaps she would hate me for this. So be it. If this is something she views as worthy of hatred, then she needs my prayers more, not less. My prayer is unchanged. This is my heart. I will raise her up to You in my prayers every night. May You bind and cast out any deep fears, any temptations, any accusations in her life. Especially the ones I gave her. May You bless her greatly, and conform her into Your image, giving her grace and brokenness and healing and true strength. If this is not Your will, then take her from those hands, from my heart and from my desires. If this is Your will, then prepare her and prepare me so that we may honor each other. I will pray until You answer. This is Your story, however it ends. I will wait for You to write it.

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21 June 2007

Somewhere Between Hosea and Jonah.

‘It’s not my fight.’ They generally say it when the protagonists need them the most. Han Solo says it to Luke Skywalker, leaving him to face the suicidal trench run alone. Francis Marion, on the eve of the great battle in ‘The Patriot,’ decides his course is run. Theoden of Rohan asks why Rohan should ride out for those who did not ride for them. The story rarely ends there, though; something always happens to pull the characters back into the story. So Theoden, upon seeing the beacon of Gondor, decides to ride to wrath, to ruin, and the world’s ending. Marion, finding the flag that his son was mending, returns in time to turn the tide of the battle. And Solo, remembering a loyalty he had long forgot, buys Luke enough time to destroy the Death Star.

Our myths reflect the One True Myth. God calls the most unlikely of heroes to leave behind the lives they knew and enter into His story. Some go easily. With just a word, Simon Peter leaves his nets behind to become a fisher of men. On command, Hosea takes a leap of faith and enters into a relationship he knew would break his heart. But more often than not, God seems to draw his characters from the ranks of the unwilling. Saul, the great persecutor of Christians, is dragged into his role kicking and screaming. Jonah runs as far and as fast as he can, and God is forced to beat obedience into him with the waves of the sea. Ultimately, both Jonah and Hosea find their places in His story. And even though Hosea’s scars of righteousness stand in sharp contrast to Jonah’s scars of stubbornness, God still uses scars to shape them, breaking and remaking them until they can be used by Him. So it is Peter and Paul, Hosea and Jonah. I think most of us fall somewhere in between.

Allow me to provide some narrative. Five years ago, I arrived in Cambridge. Providing a bit of context, I am a suburban-raised middle-class conservative Evangelical white male who serves in the military. Take every category that is popular in Cambridge, and imagine someone who is the diametric opposite of all of them. That’s pretty much me. So within weeks a nascent sense grows into a full-fledged realization: something along the lines of ‘everyone [else] is welcome here.’ I had hoped against hope to find a place where it was safe to be smart, where it was safe to be myself without having to give a whit about what was popular. For someone who had dreamt of finding kindred spirits in the self-proclaimed intellectual Mecca of the country, this was a dagger. Soon enough, though, I realized there was a reality much deeper than my thwarted desires for belonging: there was a war, and I was very far behind enemy lines. And every ethics class, every bumper sticker, every curbside protestor was bound and determined to make me feel it.

I’ve heard a friend tell me that I couldn’t understand what it was like to be hated for the way you looked. I’m not so sure that’s true. I’ve worn a uniform through Harvard Square a few times. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many faces disfigured by scorn in a row. Of course, I can take off my uniform much more easily than that friend could leave behind their melanin, but I can no more put aside my identity as a soldier than they could put aside their race. For a warrior, service is identity; in a very real way those who I serve with are my people, and I am theirs. The phrase ‘brothers and sisters in arms’ is not said in vain. We have our own language, our own culture, our own language, our own rituals, and our own values. First amongst these is honor. We‘ll return to this in a bit. I remember a friend stating in Leadership class, ’I like Dave, he’s not like most military guys.’ Imagine this phrase in any other context: ’I like you because you’re not like the rest of your people.’ Even in something intended as a compliment, the message came through loud and clear: ’your kind isn’t welcome here.’

I have always turned to the Body of Christ for community and belonging. After all, we are supposed to be family. So I found myself involved in the various Cambridge ministries, in the same way I had been involved in the various Colorado Springs ministries before. To one whose identity is under attack, a safe place to be yourself is prized above all. And this is what I sought in Bible Studies, in Church, and Christian conferences. Yet, even there, the same message was whispered. At Bible Study, I still sensed some degree of discomfort with who I was and what I represented. In context, though, those are my friends and sometimes friends disagree. And I truly appreciate the grace they showed in their disagreements. I suspect that I challenged them as much as they challenged me. At Church, though, the message was not so much whispered as spoken. In their depiction of Stations of the Cross, the station where the soldiers stripped Christ was presented interspersed with images of soldiers in Iraq. ‘This is who you are. You are not the Centurion. You are hurting Jesus when you go into Iraq.’ At an InterVarsity graduate student conference, the message was not just spoken, but screamed. Marva Dawn, addressing systemic evil, told the gathered crowd to ‘remember the American government and military interests who pay for your education, for they are the principalities and the powers.’ It may not have occurred to her that some in that crowd may have been of the house of the Centurion and the house of Caesar. The principalities and the powers, in a scriptural context, means the forces of Satan. So the message, to any soldier who happened to be there, is ’you serve Satan.’ Uncharitable, at the very least. Devastating to someone looking for somewhere where it was safe to be real. I understood the entirety of the experience as something akin to being behind enemy lines. And just as a POW has little interest to returning to the land of his tormentors, I had little interest in returning to Cambridge. It became my Nineveh, a land that hated my people. So as soon as I got my degree, I ran as far and as fast as I could.

In a way I could have never understood at the time, it was the last Cambridge wound that would bring me back. The deepest wounds always strike at our identity. Some wounds attack our people as a whole, but the crueler wounds tell us that we are not of our people. Those who have been deeply wounded draw from their wounds when they want to hurt another. And she did that day. So the warrior, whose honor is his identity, is told that he has no honor. ‘A white girl with a tan,’ with a decade of compounded interest. The message is the same: ‘you are not of your people.’ There were reasons, of course. There are always reasons. The teenager who wounded her a decade ago had reasons, too. ‘Why does this weird girl keep bothering us? I wish she would leave us alone.’ All the way back to the garden there were reasons. ‘If you hadn’t given me this woman…if the man was doing what he was supposed to do…’ So we are trapped in the physics of a fallen world, we are the slaves and the slave-owners, all at once; the wounded wounding others in a never-ending cascade of brokenness reaching all the way back to the fall. We spend our days trying to equalize brokenness, hoping to find some sort of balance in an equitable distribution of pain. But there can be no balance in brokenness… it must itself be broken. And I was broken that day.

You can only teach someone when they are ready to learn. I don’t know how long God had been waiting to teach me. But at long last, that day I was ready to learn. No more running, no more hiding, no more wrestling Him for control, I came to Him as my only hope. I came to Him with simple prayers, and I came intending to pray until He answered. And in that brokenness, He began to teach. Thus began the most fruitful year of my life.

Sometimes you don’t realize what He has been teaching until He has already taught it. I had been praying for reconciliation for a year. It wasn’t until I returned to Cambridge that I realized how much reconciliation He had taught me. So I am sitting across from my friend, talking about the things that divide us, dreaming and praying for unity. Colorado Springs and Cambridge united for the Great Commission. I felt passion and purpose flowing through us, and it was the most natural thing in the world. And it strikes me, on the walk back to the car, that two years ago it would not have been the most natural thing in the world. I’ve heard it said that God never wastes a hurt. I believe it. In praying for two people to be reconciled to each other, He helped me to understand how many people could be reconciled to each other. Healing me and humbling me, He had been preparing me for a story that I had previously not wanted any part of.

As individuals, we reflect our communities, even as our communities reflect who we are as individuals. It is then appropriate that she and I, both of us in many ways the archetypes of our factions, fractured along the same fault lines that divide our communities: race, class and politics. It seems that God often leads us into the brokenness of communities through brokenness between individuals. Hosea comes back to mind.

Upon first reading Hosea, many years ago, I remember feeling that God treated him cruelly. Destroying a good man’s life, breaking his heart over and over just to write a case study, these didn’t seem to me the actions of a compassionate God. I consigned his story to the closet of ‘things I don’t understand about God,’ assuming that He would explain things in time. A few years ago, when I began to understand vulnerability, Hosea’s story started to come into focus. As Theologically problematic as it may be, I wonder if there is some flavor of ‘God’s loneliness’ in this story. I know all the Aquinas: simple being, necessary, complete and all of that. But I also know Lewis’ brilliant passage in the Four Loves, telling us that to love at all is to be hurt. I imagine an image of God in pain, inviting His friend Hosea to come and dwell with Him in that place. That feeling, relational God is infinitely different from the Aristotelian watchmaker god writing Aesop’s Fables in our blood and tears that I had so feared in the first reading. At the very least, God invites Hosea into a place where he can understand the ways we hurt Him. In this is a paradoxical vulnerability; an infinitely powerful God gives us the latitude to cause Him pain. I cannot see Zeus or Thor enduring the insults of mortal men, yet the God of Everything chooses to do so out of love.

Walking with my friend, though, the picture of Hosea was completed. When He invites us into Him, He always sends us back out. God invites Hosea into vulnerability in order to prepare him for his ministry. There is no way that Hosea could have ministered as the prophet of God to Israel unless he intimately understood the feelings of God for Israel. So God gave him Gomer. And the man who brought his wife Gomer back home each time became the man who brought his people Israel back home time and again. Hosea was forged by his scars, as a sword on an anvil. Yet in his obedience he experiences grace, just as the sword being forged is immersed in cool water from time to time. And this is the difference between Hosea and Jonah.

Like Hosea, Jonah’s life is turned upside down by his calling. Like Hosea, Jonah finds vulnerability and brokenness, though he almost breaks a ship in the process. Like Hosea, Jonah is prepared for his ministries by his scars, though his are almost entirely self-inflicted. There is a certain comic irony to the whole story: Jonah’s platform for reaching Nineveh resulted almost entirely from the unpleasant consequences of his disobedience; he stumbles right into the middle of their mythology. How better to reach a people who believed in a fish-god than to make your entry from the gullet of a fish? I’m sure that a man bleached to the color of porcelain by a whale’s digestive enzymes made a pretty fearsome spectacle to the astonished city, especially when he pronounces impending doom. It would be easy to say things worked out, but really, things were redeemed. Where God would have forged Jonah with scars of righteousness, He instead allows Jonah to be forged from the scars of rebellion. While Jonah misses out on the grace that would have come with obedience, God nonetheless grants him grace as He redeems Jonah’s foolish choices. In the same way that He redeems mine.

Hosea is a hero. Jonah is a fool. God redeems the stories of both. I‘ve heard it said, ‘de loco, poeta, y tonto, todo sabemos un poco.’ I had the last one covered. I don’t know about the first two. So I was a Jonah, running and running. I thank God that He brought me to a place of brokenness where I could learn obedience. Where He could make me into a Hosea. I am still somewhere in between.

God never wastes a hurt…even when we cause them. I will rejoice in His grace, and I will treasure these lessons and passions that He had been trying to give me for so long. Even if He had to pry my hands open in order to give them to me.

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18 January 2007

Finishing What Was Started.

I heard this at Urbana, while praying right before Communion. It was unexpected. The most beautiful thing that had ever been shared between C. and I was incomplete. When I interceded as those who had hurt her, I did not intercede against the girl who had called her devastating things. I saw it as an internal discussion, one I was not a party to. I gave quarter to an attack from the enemy, when I could have rebuked it. I was wrong not to fight for her in this.

I do not know how to say this thing. If God has given me these words, then may He give me a platform from which to say them in a language she can receive. I will wait, and pray for another miracle.

Here are those words.

‘Somewhere in your head, there is still the voice of a fourteen-year-old girl who has forgotten your name, whispering that you are still a white girl with a tan. I rebuke her. She was as wrong then as she is now. You are Latina, not because you have proved it or earned it, not because of your cross-cultural ministry or your academic work, not because of your words or your music or your clothes or anything else. You are Latina because Jesus saw fit to adorn His beautiful daughter with curly hair, tan skin, dark eyes, a passionate heart, feet that feel rhythm, and a hundred other things that bring glory to Him. You have nothing to prove. You are Latina because you are His and because that is how He loves you. Enter into the joy of the things you have done for your people, in the security that you are of your people. You are a woman who will set a people free. But that never was the price for admission. They were always your people, given to you by God, who also gave you to them, and no fourteen-year-old can ever, ever take that away.’

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17 January 2007

Apology Part Two.

Today, I finished my one year task of reading all of C.S. Lewis’ books. The last book was ‘That Hideous Strength.’ God spoke to me in a way I very much did not expect. Please grant me a degree of grace here. This is me at my most real.

‘He knew that he was going to meet Jane, and something was beginning to happen to him which ought to have happened to him far earlier. That same outlook upon love which had forestalled in Jane the humility of a wife, had equally forestalled in him, during what passed for courtship, the humility of a lover…

This time at last he thought of his own clumsy importunity. And the thought would not go away. Inch by inch, all the lout and clown and clod-hopper in him was revealed to his own reluctant inspection; the course, male boor with thorny hands and hobnailed shoes and beefsteak jaw, not rushing in - for that can be carried off - but blundering, sauntering, stumping in where great lovers, knights and poets would have dared to tread. An image of Jane’s skin, so smooth that a child’s skin might make a mark on it, floated before him. How had he dared? Her driven snow, her music, her sacrosanct, the very style of her movements… how had he dared? And dared too with no sense of daring, nonchalantly, in careless stupidity! The very thoughts that crossed her face from moment to moment, all of them beyond his reach, made (had he but had the wit to see it) a hedge about her which such as he should never have had the temerity to pass. Yes, yes - of course, it was she who had allowed him to pass it: perhaps in luckless, misunderstanding pity. And he had taken blackguardly advantage of that noble error in her judgment; had behaved as if here native to that fenced garden and even its natural professor.

All this, which should have been uneasy joy, was torment to him, for it came to late. He was discovering the hedge after he had plucked the rose, and not only plucked it but torn it all to pieces and crumpled it with hot, thumb-like, greedy fingers. How had he dared?’

God, forgive me. I tried, over and over, to pick the lock on the hedge you built to protect your beloved daughter. How had I dared? How could I have thought that through some strength, or cleverness, or sleight of hand that I could trespass in that garden that You created and You have guarded? You were right to keep me out. Forgive me, Lord. Her heart is yours. Forgive me for my clumsy attempts at burglary. I will try to pick locks no more. I will ask You for the key. She is Yours first and always.

‘What could he do in such a place- where his very admiration could only be insult, his best attempts to be either grave or gay could only reveal unbridgeable misunderstanding? What he had called her coldness seemed now to be patience. Whereof the memory scalded. For he loved her now. But it was all spoiled: too late to mend matters.

Suddenly the diffused light brightened and flushed. He looked up and perceived a great lady standing by a doorway in a wall. It was not Jane, not like Jane. It was larger, almost gigantic. It was not human, though it was like a woman divinely tall, part naked, part wrapped in a flame-colored robe. Light came from it. The face was enigmatic, ruthless he thought, inhumanly beautiful. It was opening the door for him. He dare not disobey (‘surely’ he thought, ‘I must have died,’) and he went in: found himself in some place of sweet smells and bright fires, with food and wine and a rich bed.’

Jesus, if you would honor me by placing Your daughter into my hands, please teach me to love her the way You do. May I tread with reverence, respecting your artistry, yet with daring, with such valor as would fit entering into such a hallowed and mysterious and dangerous place as her heart. May I honor her with my heart, worship her with my body, and love her with my life. May I protect her and challenge her. May I love her enough to give her new life, for love brings life, and gives birth to new life. May I surround her with children, and grand-children. If You give her to me, may I give her back to You each day, for she is Yours first and always. Just as I am Yours first. This is my heart, placed in Your hands.

‘Go in obedience and you will find love. You will have no more dreams. Have children instead. Urendi Maleldil.’

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16 January 2007

Apology.

When facing an in-flight emergency, the least useful question is ‘who is more to blame.’ The entire crew is bound together in their fates, regardless of who caused the problem or why. They either save the aircraft together, or they die together. If it is saved, the question of blame ceases to be important after a safe landing (except insofar as answering it can prevent future emergencies.) If the aircraft crashes, the safety board will have plenty of time to figure out who was more to blame, most likely without the assistance of the crew. Raising the question of blame in flight all but ensures that the safety board will close the question well after the answer is of any use to the crew.

Relationships are no different. ‘Who is more to blame’ is a question for divorce courts, not for a marriage. Even if the other person is 99% wrong, you are still 1% wrong. Which means that you are wrong. The wrongness of the other does nothing to mitigate your own. Anything that goes wrong in a relationship involves both people in the relationship. If we break things together, then the only way to fix them is together. I spent so much time arguing about who was more wrong. That was never the question.

The reality is that we both hurt each other. Not Proverb’s ‘honest wounds from a friend.’ Cruel, vicious wounds. Two people who value loyalty and honor above all things (save One) attacked those very things in each other. She and I both accused each other of disloyalty, dishonesty and dishonor; we named each other as lacking in courage and integrity. It is one thing to misunderstand each other. Surely there was some of that. That could be excused; two people can be well-intentioned and well-meaning and still crash into each other as their words ricochet off the walls. But it is one thing to find yourself in the crossfire between crooked souls trying to stand up straight. It is a quite different thing to fashion words into weapons and aim them at the heart of the other. Something in both of us wanted to hurt the other the way we had been hurt. Instead of being found naked and defenseless in a moment of vulnerability, we did what we had always done to keep ourselves safe. We attacked.

In a way, it was a perfect trap. Take two Christians whose spiritual resumes looked quite good on paper; two Christians who loved God as best as they could, but were both deeply proud and deeply scared. Set up a dissonance between them, where they are equally attracted to and repelled by each other. Convince each to try to fix that dissonance through their own power. Make sure that fear keeps both of them from really being honest with themselves about their own hearts. Watch as the tension grows until the situation finally explodes.

I never respected her will, when it really came down to it. I thought I had, I convinced myself that I had, I forced myself to act as if I had, but I never really had. Somewhere in the depths of my heart, I never considered her ‘no’ valid. And even if I wasn’t willing to see it, she saw it. And resented me for it. She was not wrong to do so. This was my contribution to the brokenness.

She never respected my heart. I think she thought that she did. I think she thought as if she was acting as if she did. But she never did. Somewhere in the depths of her heart, she always resented my feelings for her. She was always wrong to do so. Just as she had the right to her will, I had a right to my heart. I don’t think she was willing to see it, but somewhere deep I saw it. And I resented her for it. I was not wrong to do so. This was her contribution to the brokenness.

My disrespect and her disrespect fed off each other. She blamed my heart for my disrespect of her will, just as I blamed her will for her disrespect of my heart. The more I resented her will for disrespecting my heart, the more I disrespected her will. And the more she resented my heart for disrespecting her will. The broken chord was complete. The only resolution I could see was a change in her will, and I think perhaps that was why I tried so hard to be friends with her. The only resolution she could see was a change in my heart, which is why she preconditioned our friendship on my not being attracted to her. So I killed my heart in the insane hope that in doing so she would learn not to resent it. But my heart did not stay dead. Two months into waiting for a phone call that was promised but never came, it returned with a vengeance. All the pain, the heartache, and the resentment that I had been burying for months, years really, declared thatit would be buried no longer. All the words that should have been said long ago were said all at once, and the already tenuous relationship shattered into a million pieces. Her counter-attack came months later. The first time she was truly honest with herself, and with me, she told me in no uncertain terms the depths of her resentment toward me. The trap had worked perfectly. Two Christians in very good standing went for each other’s throats. What could have been a mockery of disunity had become a case study in it.

Pride seems to be the enemy’s weapon of choice against those in Christian leadership. Few in ministry will risk their influence or livelihood through open rebellion. Self-will provides us the appearance of righteousness so important to public perceptions, while leaving us wide open to temptation. It is a root sin; a gateway sin leading to all kinds of unrighteousness. Unless God lances the wound, it will burst at a time of the enemy’s choosing, usually one disastrous to our witness and our ministry. This is a lesson we should be all too familiar with.

Pride has a special seduction for those who are highly gifted and for those who have been deeply wounded. It whispers ‘you can be safe if you trust in your own power.’ Those who have been hurt desire safety more than most, those who are gifted trust their own power more than most. It tells you that you can fix things if you try hard enough. I have found that I have no power to work miracles; a miracle is what it would have taken to fix things between her and I. Pride cut me off from the source of miracles. Not only that, it blinded me to my contribution to the problem. Pride always looks outside for problems, never inwards. I tried so hard to fix her, but I never fixed myself. I never started with the plank in my own eye. Just as the Spirit is the guarantor of salvation, pride is the guarantor of brokenness. The Spirit promises that He will complete the work started in us. Pride ensures that no work is done in us. Under its watch, all the things that are broken will stay broken. And so it was with us.

We both tried to convince ourselves to feel the way we knew we should feel. I knew that I should respect her will, but simultaneously I refused to believe that two Christians could not manage to have some sort of positive interaction. So through my own strength and my own mind, I set out to do both. I felt as if she was saying ‘I will resent you if you like me. You must kill your heart if you want to talk to me.’ I accepted that rule, ostensibly in the hope of being friends. I found the topics of relationships, marriage, children, and love unappetizing. But I was never honest with myself. I killed my heart, over and over, but it kept coming back up and poisoning the interaction. And it kept hoping that she would change her mind, that she would magically figure out I was a good guy if I kept putting up with abuse. So the tension built.

Perhaps it was the same from her side. Perhaps she knew that there wasn’t a good reason to resent my heart, but something in her heart kept pushing her to hating mine. So she decided to fix it through her own power, to choose to feel the way toward me that she decided she should feel. Perhaps, just as it was with me, whatever it is in her heart kept bubbling back up and poisoning the relationship. During the best conversation we ever had, she promised that she would call soon about the dynamics between her and I. She told me that she still wanted to be friends. I think she may have had the intention of keeping that promise, but it was a promise borne of duty, not Phileos. Perhaps she knew that was what she was supposed to do in that circumstance, what she would have wanted to do if her heart was doing what she told it that it should do. But it came back up, convincing her not to call, to avoid, to run. And the tension built.

Humility is the constant companion of love. It tells us that we need love, that we owe love to others, it teaches us to be open to love. In the same way, fear is the constant companion of pride. Fear whispers that we cannot need anything from anyone, that we cannot owe them anything, it teaches us to close ourselves off from love. Humility teaches us to be broken. Fear prevents us from being broken. In order to dismantle pride, you must destroy the fear that drives it. In order to do that, you must find the courage to face your own heart.

Both of us were afraid to face ourselves. For me, I was terrified to face my heart, because I was terrified of being hurt. I knew that if I faced my heart, it would tell me that I loved her. And if it told me that, then she would hate me for it, and I would be deeply wounded again. She had never carried that well, never done anything to be gentle or to honor my heart. To love her was to be told that my heart was disgusting and hateful, so I decided not to love. I decided to hide my heart, bury it because I was afraid.

I think she may have been afraid too. I don’t believe that things were entirely simple for her. It seemed there was a part of her who liked me, and another part that hated that part for liking me. Something in her knew that it was illegitimate to hate me for that, so she made the rule that I could never like her. Therefore, her hating my heart would then be my fault, and hence legitimate. If she were to face her heart, she would have to face two terrifying things: she was neither in total control of the situation nor in total control of her own feelings. So it was safer to run, to hide and to bury. But fears do not stay peacefully in the grave. They haunt our waking lives. The only way to undo them is to exhume them. Both her and I were terrified to face ourselves, so we never really faced each other. I wonder if either of us really had faces to begin with.

We were cruel to each other over and over. God mourns for that; He mourns for the way His son treated His daughter, He mourns for the way His daughter treated His son. There is no balance in brokenness, no balance in the fall. We are hurt, and we hurt others, over and over again. We are the slaves and the slave owners, both at once. Brokenness cannot be balanced. It must be overthrown.

I am a part of the brokenness. I was the son of God who hurt His beloved daughter. The fact that she hurt me does nothing at all to mitigate my guilt. So I will own it, and I will lay it down at the foot of the Cross. I ask Him to forgive me for hurting His beloved daughter. I ask His forgiveness for my disrespect toward her, for the way that I resented the will He gave her. I ask His forgiveness for my failure to confront her lovingly when she treated me with disrespect. I ask His forgiveness for responding to her with rage. I ask forgiveness for my tremendous pride, for my tremendous fear, for my unwillingness to yield her into His hands. I was so concerned with outcomes. Jesus, teach me obedience instead. God, teach me to love her the way that You do. Whether or not I ever get to express it on this side of eternity.

May His grace and mercy flow over this. Where there was disrespect, may He sow honor; where there was resentment, compassion; where there was pride, brokenness; where there was fear, love. May what is a case study in disunity become a mockery of disunity. May we both find our faces, so that we can be real with God and with others. May the God who does the impossible work a miracle here. May the God who reconciles the irreconcilable reconcile the two of us. I ask all of these things in the Name of Jesus Christ, the Name above all Names, the Lion of the Tribe of Judah. May that same sacred Blood that flows through her veins and mine cover all of our sins toward each other.

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14 January 2007

Refugees.

It is not really fair, I am realizing, to resent someone for failing to provide something that they were never capable of providing in the first place. Even if they did promise it. I am beginning to understand the depths of bitterness in my own heart. Remarkably, I am finding much of my driven-ness wrapped around that bitterness. Alexander goes to Asia to find his home. Finding none, he drives harder and further. When counseled to return to Macedonia, he unleashes his rage on those who advise him to return ‘home.’ These men truly consider themselves to have a home. He does not. For them to ask him to return to a place named home is an invitation to a mockery.

‘We’re all the home that’s offered here.’ As much as I hate to quote a Sarah McLachlan song, it seems to fit. There was something deep, something that was never at peace with the campus ministry I was involved during grad school. I think I have finally found words to wrap around it. There has always been a sense somewhere of the accusation ‘we all fit, why can’t you?’ Like there was some set of rules in a given place, and others knew them instinctively. Not just that. There was a perception of a sense of belonging, a sense others had that I could not really ever find. Like they had finally found what they were looking for. Like they were home.

There was always a mad passion in my journey. One that told me in every new place that I haven’t quite found the object of my search, one that pushed me over the every next mountain range to find it. (I know that I’m supposed to like Bono, being a young, socially conscious, IV-trained Christian and all, but I really couldn’t bring myself to say ‘I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.’ Oops. I guess I just did.)
That search drove me to my undergraduate institution (emphasis on institution,) to grad school, to pilot training, and to my current job. Don’t get me wrong, I do not regret any of those things. They are all tremendous blessings and God used those places to shape who I am in Him. But it’s hard to understand a quest when you never quite understood the question.

There is something about humanity that causes our heart and our head to constantly miscommunicate. Our hearts drive us on, and we think we know what it wants. We try to get that thing, but our heart rejects it. Perhaps this is why we always want what we can’t have. A part of us believes that the answer to that driving question must be in that place that is just beyond our reach. After all, we have found that it is not in any of the things within reach. The author of Ecclesiastes can tell us that much. But he is no Gautama. He does not tell us to give up on desire. Lewis tells us that desire will lead us home, if we follow it where it leads. He is right, both about the journey and its object. Home is what we really want.

There is no home to be found here. There was once a home here, once. We chose exile, and exiles we have been ever since. But we are still royalty in exile. We were meant for so much more, and our heart remembers. Hope is a hard place, though. Comfort and desire rarely co-exist. To want at all is to sacrifice safety and stability. You must move in order to find the object of your desire, and very often, to move is to fail or to get hurt. But the alternative is worse. Consider Eldridge’s beached sea lion, making his home in a mud hole. We can end the exile by setting here, but if we are exiled royalty, we end our claim to royalty when we end our exile.

Refugee camps are as good as it gets on this side of eternity. We sojourn with others on their way home. The camps are not home, but they are very different from the slums we built in the wasteland. While without many of the amenities of those slums, the camps are populated by those who will populate the Heavenly city. But we aren’t there yet.

Sometimes you get frustrated with each other in the refugee camps. Tent flaps do little to keep out the snoring coming from the next tent. You get annoyed with the people in line for the latrine. You may not all even see eye to eye on which direction move the camp. But we should not expect these tents to be home. Our desire would be impoverished if we were satisfied in this place. So that mad driving passion wasn’t necessarily bad. It was just confused as to what it really wanted.

Perhaps there were other places where I was looking for a home, other people I asked for something they could never provide. There was a part of me, I believe, that was looking for a woman who would be home. I think I saw it very wrong. I will not find what I am looking for in a person here any more than I will find it in a tent in a refugee camp. But I can provide a tent for a family, and I can keep that tent secure. She can make that tent more like the home that we are returning to. And together we can return to our real home.

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13 January 2007

Reflection.

‘As Christ Loves the Church.’ This is the way that a man is supposed to love a woman. I think I understand this far better than I ever had. It ended up being far more true than I expected. If one wants to stay safe, I suppose they should not choose a faith whose founder dies a horrible death and then invites us to follow.

There once was a story of transposition between C. and I. What happened there was significant, too important to be shared on-line. Suffice it to say that I became the people who hurt her. At least some of them.

I understand why she hated me so much. I understand the depths of her capacity to hate. I became those people, the people who had hurt her so deeply. Who had denied her a home. So she hurt me, intentionally and cruelly. The same way she had been hurt. I’m sure she found reasons. She may have even believed it was for my own good. I don’t know. All I know is that I fought for her, I became the people that hurt her, and she hurt me the way that they hurt her.

So perhaps this is a reflection of the One True Myth. Like seasons or birth or gods of corn. Like anything else. I’m not sure how it ends.

I hope with all my heart that it ends like that One True Myth. In resurrection, freedom and spring. Where everything will be made new again. Whatever that looks like. I will forget what I knew of old C. I hope with all my heart I get to meet new C. Again for the first time.

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12 January 2007

There are No Sides.

The funny thing about an undeclared war is that people end up on sides without even knowing it. Without choosing or even being informed of it, the friends of the combatants find themselves drafted into the conflict. I recall something my friend S. said about C. ‘You know, I really don’t like her. I don’t think she’s a good person.’ My response was something to the effect of ‘that’s because you’re my friend. If you were her friend I imagine you’d think those things about me.’ So the enemy of my friend is my enemy. And the friend of my enemy is my enemy.

I think I now understand something about the rage that Pastor’s Kids feel toward God. Your father, the pastor, is far from perfect. In the bloody wars of adolescence, he hurts you badly. Perhaps rightly or wrongly from some fictional objective viewpoint, but certainly wrongly from your perspective. So the battle lines are drawn. You see how deeply your parent wounds you, but everyone in the church keeps talking about how great he is. The friend of my enemy is my enemy. They all side with him, whether or not they are aware of the war. And if the people of God side with your dad, then God sides with your dad. There is nowhere that you can go. So Tory Amos and Nietzsche and however many others set out on their war to tear the whole thing down around them.

The friend of my enemy is my enemy. Unless there is a deeper loyalty than friendship. If there were such a thing, then the friend of my enemy could be my friend. They could be a friend to both of us at once. A friend to one side would cheer for their side as the blows were exchanged. A friend to both sides would mourn as their friends continued to wound each other. They would desire an end to the war.

Joshua was preparing to attack Jericho, when he sees a man with sword drawn. He asks him, ‘whose side are you on?’ The man answers ‘I am on the Lord’s side.’ If God does not pick sides as His Chosen People set out to conquer the promised land on His orders, than how could I have imagined that He would have chosen sides in a conflict between two of His beloved children? He never did. He mourned for what she and I did to each other. He recognized my pain, legitimated it, and He heals it. He desires an end to the war.

Here at Urbana, I am surrounded by a distinct impression of her diffused influence. This is her world, these are her friends, these are her ministries. This is her legacy. I am certain that the stock of C. in this place is quite higher than my own. I have to say that is not the most comfortable of experiences. The friend of my enemy is my enemy, and her accusations echo off the walls of this place. All twenty thousand pointing fingers tell me to leave it alone. There are two sides, and I know which one they will choose. Maybe, though, there is a better side to choose than hers or mine.

It was another function of my pride, I think, when I chose not to talk to mutual friends about the story. She accused me of using her friends against her. I was so determined to disprove that accusation through my own strength that I determined that no mutual friend who did not already know about the story would find out about it. Doing so, I cut myself off from much wise council. This was foolish. I reject her accusation wholeheartedly. It was entirely appropriate to discuss this with my mentors. The fact that they know her does nothing to change that.

I didn’t want a trial by friends. I stopped wanting that months ago. I didn’t want to be right, I didn’t care about being right. I didn’t want them to choose my side, I didn’t want them to side with me against her, I didn’t need to hear that I was a great guy and she was cruel to me. Being right is cold solace for one who desires reconciliation. In telling the story, I saw something far more valuable in my friends’ eyes. I found that I was okay. That it was understandable to feel the way I did. That I wasn’t crazy to feel what I felt.

I guess that I had always thought that her para-church ministry sided with her. They didn’t. There were never any sides. I think back to the mistake of Palm Sunday. The city of Jerusalem asks God to side with them against the Romans. On that day, Hosanna meant ‘God, take my side,’ not ’Lord, save.’ When He fails to do so, they have no further use for Him. They were more wrong than they could have imagined. His side was better than their own, better than the Roman side, better than all sides. I want to be Joshua at Jericho. I am tired of my side. I want to be on the Lord’s side.

Really, they wanted what I wanted. Not all of it, I guess. But part of it. They wanted reconciliation. I wanted reconciliation. Whatever other stories are happening here, whatever God is or is not doing, I know with all my heart that He desires reconciliation between His children. So, in prayer and accountability, I pursued reconciliation. Never heard anything back. Still, my prayers go with her. May we be reconciled. I believe with all my heart that the Blood of Christ can take enemies and turn them into family. Amongst all the miracles that I am praying for, I believe that one is the closest to the center of His will.

[Note: Before writing this post, I sent an email to someone from undergrad who I would have once considered an enemy. It seems like forever ago, and it was almost a decade, but I don’t think I would have ever called that person a friend. God put it on my heart to make things right with them. I sent them an email, asking for reconciliation, and apologizing if I had hurt them. I just got an email back from them, saying the same things back. Praise God. I do not think that I could have imagined being reconciled to that person eight years ago. But I was quite a different person eight years ago. There were never any sides. Praise God that through His Blood enemies can become family. May He bless my sibling greatly.]

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11 January 2007

Pensacola Redux.

Learning to fly is one of the most fascinating experiences I know of. Imagine being transported back to infancy while keeping your mind and will intact. Knowing what you know now, think of how it would feel to learn to walk all over again. Pilot training, of course, is hardly the only professional school out there. Law School is hard, I have no doubt. But it is different. You can take your pre-law degree and apply it directly to Torts class. Though much more intense, in some way it is still more of the same. It is not that degrees or academic work cannot be applied to pilot training. Take our class of eager, well-educated aspiring walkers. One man has a degree in developmental psych. He understands something of the mechanics of his own brain as he learns to walk; he gains a unique perspective on the endeavor, but learning to walk is still fundamentally different from reading a textbook on cognition. So the Aeronautical Engineer understands something about why he needs to add more power as he flies slower and the Art major understands something about making the landing picture ‘look right.’ In order to learn to fly, though, both the engineer and the artist have to step entirely outside of their comfort zone when they strap themselves into an aircraft.

The uniqueness of pilot training is captured in the Initial Solo. After flying six or seven rides with an instructor, the student pilot takes the aircraft up on their own. It is a tremendously significant ride, but you really don’t learn much airmanship on your solo. Instead, you discover how much you already know. And how much you still don’t know. It has something to do with the learning process, I think. You try something. It doesn’t work out. You think about what went wrong, your instructor demonstrates how do to it right, and you try it again until your instructor is satisfied. He knows you know how to perform the maneuver, and he signs you off on it. So you know how to do it, but you don’t really know that you know until you go and do it yourself. This is why we solo. Your instructor knows you can fly, but you don’t really know yourself until you go out and do it.

There is something of an Instructor Pilot in God, I think. He keeps bringing us back to the same situation until we follow His instruction. He demonstrates through the Word (God-breathed or God breathing,) and He asks us to repeat the maneuver until we get it right. Once He is satisfied that we know what to do, He places us back in the situation one more time to prove to ourselves that we know what to do. He signs us off, puts His wings on our chest, and gives us the keys.

So at Urbana, I find myself back in Pensacola. Longest ride back home in recent memory. I swear I heard Him talking, but I could not respond. I remember being frozen, completely unable to act. I hear the call, and my hand is frozen to my sword. The pastor was right. My other friends were right. Be a man. Act. But I could not. Fell on my face, crashed and burned. I never ended up figuring it out. Not that I wrote it off, far from it. I gave it up. ‘I don’t know the answer, God, but You do. And I’m okay with that.’

I guess I had thought that was the end of that lesson. After all, He never really brought it back up. Until now. And I start to realize how much I have learned.

He shows me one critical fact. There is a difference between being reconciled and having all my deep prayers answered. This is a possibility I had not really considered: a reconciliation without an ending. A world where we were not best buddies, but one where we were okay with each other. Where we say all the things that needed to be said and never were, where we face each other with honor and answer each other with respect. Where I keep praying, and I respect her will and her ‘no.’ Where she respects my prayers and my heart, where we live our entirely separate lives. A world with or without terms of further interaction, but a world at peace.

There is something in me that wanted to win. The ‘hasta el fin’ part, I think. That part of me couldn’t quite wrap itself around the concept of a ‘peace with honor.’ It wouldn’t have been the first time that phrase was used to describe ‘giving up.‘ It doesn’t have to mean that though. Reconciliation does not have to mean the end of the story. Only the end of a chapter.

Desire will lead us home. I still believe that. I will not stop praying halfway. So in any world, reconciled or not, I will keep praying until He answers my original prayer, ‘change my heart or change hers.’ I will not act on that prayer until He answers it, clearly and unequivocally. But I have another prayer now. Reconciliation. I know that much is right, at least. I do not know if He desires that C. and I somehow end up together. But I do know, for absolutely certain, that He desires reconciliation between His children, C. and I included. Therefore, I will pursue reconciliation, insofar as it concerns me and insofar as I am able. If that involves action, so be it. I am accountable. I will pursue her still in my prayers, but I will work to end the war between us.

I have always been far too concerned with outcomes. I suppose it is only natural, given my profession. Analyze the situation. Take the proper action. Anticipate courses of action, choose the most probable effective path. But this is not the math of God. Outcomes were never the question. Only obedience. I was never held to account for how things turned out, only for how well I followed Him. This was the lesson from Pensacola. Quit running the numbers, just do what He says. Let Him be God. He runs the universe, not me.

Sometimes He takes us back to that exact same place where we failed. He teaches us, surrounds us with support, speaks to us a bit more clearly, and then gives us another shot at it. So in the middle of Urbana, I find myself back at Pensacola. Talking to a spiritual mentor who understood the situation, I felt as if God was telling me to actively seek reconciliation with her. I heard it in the messages, in the praise songs, the same nudge from five different directions. I didn’t even want to hear it. I didn’t want to go back to Pensacola. I was fine with my prayers, fine not talking to her, okay with waiting on a miracle. I was comfortable. I did not want to be moved. The same counter-argument remained. If I tried talk to her, she would most likely hate me, and if she says anything at all, it would be just be more long knives and accusations. But I had learned something from Pensacola: none of that mattered at all.

I am not responsible for her actions, nor for her heart, nor for her feelings toward me. None of those things are my responsibility, and none of them change my duty to seek reconciliation insofar as I am able. Realizing this, I seek wisdom. I feel as if I should write her, so I pray, ‘God, if this thought is from you, bring it back to me tomorrow. If not, may I forget it tonight. I yield it to you.’ I pray that one day, the thought comes to me the next day. And I pray it again that day, and it comes to me the third day. That day, I met with another mutual mentor, a man I respect deeply. By this time, I am willing to speak to him openly about the story, asking his advice. I tell him the situation, and that I am planning on messaging her, asking his advice. He concurs. So I send it. Please note that I am not citing cosmic, Gideon-style coincidences to justify my actions, clearly there were none of those here. But I do not need a Gideon-style sign to tell me to do what is already in Scripture. There is nothing about getting the girl you want in Scripture. There is lots about a believer’s duty to reconcile, insofar as they can. The question was never so much the authorization, but finding the strength. I found it in my mentors and I found it over those three days. I thank Him for providing me the strength and support to do what I should have done months ago. I’m glad I got to give it a second shot.

I asked her if she would honor me by meeting with me for reconciliation before we took communion on Sunday. I am not sure if she was even there. I never heard back. But that was never the point. Sending the message, I felt as if I had done what I was supposed to do. I felt like I had returned to Pensacola, and done things right. Initial solo with the lessons He had taught me. There’s no way I would have realized how much I learned without being placed in a position where I had to use that knowledge. I obeyed, I let Him sort out the consequences. I have no idea whether she even received the message, nor how she took it if she did. You know what? It doesn’t matter. That is between her and God. All I know is that I did as I was told. That’s really all I needed to know, anyways. Well, I guess I know one other thing. I took Communion that Sunday with a clean conscience.

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10 January 2007

How Much Has Changed.

‘Maybe redemption has stories to tell,
Maybe forgiveness is right where you fell,
Where can you run to escape from yourself?
Where are you going to go… Salvation is here.’ - Switchfoot, Dare You to Move.

Try, fail, quit, run. A sequence I knew all too well. Find enough hope to give it a shot again, but make sure all your bases are covered as you dip a toe into the water. As the cold water stings, pull your foot back and set yourself to flight. Banish all thoughts, all desires, anything that would make you want to hope. I lived as a coward for far too long. A man afraid of his own heart. So I ran from it, hid it, buried it, tried to placate it, to make it forget, I did anything and everything to keep it tame, to keep it from hurting me. To love was to be hurt, so therefore I would love only on my terms, only when the investment was safe. I was C.S.L’ self-invited and self-protective lovelessness. Unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.

Jonah ran. God brought him back until he finally quit running. Moses at least gave it a shot. When he saw where God was moving, he determined to get there through his own strength. He made sure that he analyzed all the options, ran the numbers, and gave it a try. Running in exile, stripped of position and power, he finds himself a shepherd. Try, fail, quit, run. So decades later, when God shows up in a burning bush, his answer is ‘you’ve got the wrong guy.’ His answer is not borne of the modesty of a simple man, far from it. Moses was the child of the courts of Phara