Why Theology

I was asked recently why I chose to study theology. My answer at the time was hollow -- the kind of thing you said when you were embarrassed of the real answer. The kind of thing you said that made you some shade of khaki, a neutral to blend in with the rest of society, hoping the attractive man who asked would accept it for what it was and move on, allowing you to talk about things you would be sure would flatter him, like British-ism, Russian neighborhoods, and nuclear non-proliferation.

"It's fascinating, really. Someone's religious beliefs are at the heart of who they are, the ideas someone holds most dearly. It's amazing to see the way that these ideas hold sway to someone, the way it motivates a person to action. Not to make it a mere sociology project -- I believe what I study."

It sounded nice. Enough to get a head nod and a change of topic.

At the end of the day, when I was bored of political discussions and niceties, I started to be annoyed at the way I had spent the past 9 hours talking about his interests while glossing over mine. I was angry with his narcissism, his inability to ask about me, to care about what I studied, his way of glorifying his own work at the expense of mine.

I owe him an apology. A week later, I reflect back and realize that I acted ashamed of my field of study, my way of life, myself. I walked around pretending to be someone I was not because I stood there ashamed of everything I believed, afraid to stand up for the truth.


I have spent the past 4 hours in a library too beautiful for words. With a structure evoking the Modern in Fort Worth, I soak in the skylight and shades of white, breathing in the scent of new books and Febreeze. I have spent the better part of my day researching for a course on prayer I'm teaching in a few short weeks, realizing I am totally ill-equip for this position, mostly because I lack confidence. I am terrified that I'll begin to teach my lesson on praying for the Second Coming and find myself knee-deep in a debate about eschatology. I'm afraid someone will laugh at me as being some sort of naive evangelical, and explain to the class that the Kingdom of God is here today, and we have no need to pray for God's return because he's here already.

I'm afraid it will happen and I will stand there, shocked for a few moments, watching as everyone laughs at me, and then storm out of the room to cry in the bathroom until I think it is safe to leave the building, catch the train and never return to Loyola.

Why do I study theology? An honest response requires me to put myself out on a limb, making myself vulnerable to attack. I study theology because its at the core of who I am. I study theology because I believe, behind every action I take is some sort of belief about God. I believe that each thing I do either glorifies God or is sin. I believe its a lasting cause to study. I believe that in the end, each day that I spend reading the Word of God and the textbooks of theologians, I become a little more like Christ, a little more like who I was meant to be.

Why theology? Because I could think of nothing more practical or necessary. Because, in the end, I want to study what I love, and I long desperately to love nothing more than God.

Almost Christmas

It's almost Christmas.

11 minutes away.

And its quiet.

The lights glow over the fireplace from my mother's small Christmas village each building with a tea light flickering inside.
The tree glows 4 colors: Red, green. Blue, yellow.
The presents glisten under the tree in their glossy paper with shiny bows.

It's being to look like Christmas.


This evening, as the snow began to fall down in large chunks, Mom and I headed out to the hot tub, envisioning ski resorts with sub-zero temps and toasty hot tubs.

With our hats on to keep our ears warm, and hunching our shoulders down so that we wouldn't have frostbitten collarbones, we sat in the steamy water and thought, "This isn't so great after all."

Snow fell in our eyes. Our noses turned red from the bitter cold temperatures. Our towels were covered in thick layers of snow.

It was wonderful.

I am finally starting to understand that my family is like no other. We do not go to Christmas Eve service, or read from Luke on Christmas Eve. We eat tacos for diner, if that's what we've decided we wanted. We might listen to a few Christmas songs, but I have yet to see "The Christmas Story" (although I can quote lines from it, after years of missing the references). My family does things our own way, and if that means freezing in hot tubs on Christmas Eve and waking up at 5 am to open presents, then so be it, because that's how we do things in this family and I wouldn't trade them for the world.

Merry Christmas. May it be filled with strange and delightful family habits.

Finals Week Epiphanies

I wrote this sometime last week, and after writing a horrible blog to be posted later about pretending to be someone else, I thought this piece would prove sufficiently ironic:


This isn't what I need to be doing, in a deadline sense, but this is exactly what I need to be doing for a holistic person sense.

I'm content to be me.

I may not write the most poetic Romans papers, or the most insightful Kierkegaard review, but I like the way I write.

I like that my blog makes little sense and that half my sentences are grammatically incorrect — or at the very least dysfunctionally long.

I may not run marathons in under 3 hours or lift 997 lbs at the gym, but I like the shape I'm in.

I like that I run to obnoxious hip-hop sometimes and the Economist others. I like that my main reason for running is that the city is beautiful and I like to watch the sun sparkle on the sides of the building while waves gently crash on Oak Street beach made of imported sand and fake palm trees.

I may not understand quantum physics or even key historical events, but I like the way I learn.

I like the way I pour my heart into a class discussion, the way I read a textbook and conclude that the author's sentences were captivating, even if the text was not. I like that at the end of every article, I can tell you five things I hated and three that I like, but fail every question that asks what the big idea was.

I may not be impressive. I may not be the top of my class. I may not cure AIDS. I may not spend all my spare time working with children in the ghetto or planting community gardens for the poor. I may never be famous, or even relatively known, but I will always be me and today I'd have it no other way.

Love Poem to Drew

I'd probably be thinking about you if I had the time.

I'd study you like theology — never mind that such a statement makes sense to far too few, but know that for you, it makes as much sense as any metaphor can.
I'd study you like only I can.

I'd articulate my favorite features of you, analyzing each quirk, each sentimentality, each delicate feature.

I'd compare you to others — making sure you are the right one for me, hoping another does not come near your brilliance.

Yes, if I had the time, I'd leisurely read your blog, hoping you say something directly to me, even if it is in code.

Or maybe I'd be better off admitting that I only think of you at this point because I have no time to think.

It's a constant flow of papers and tests, exams and essays.

My mind is imploding and I simply cannot think of another scholar or assess the findings of another brilliant man.

But I can day dream about you.

I can read each e-mail you send me, dreaming of the day that I might live only a few blocks away from you, and I can sneak over every day to listen to the people who associate with you, marveling in the way they speak, the way they represent you.

Yes, its nights like tonight when I've hardly started on a thesis which should have been written months ago — those nights —that I dream about grad school.

To sit on your lawn which always looks stunning emerald green. To peak at the stained glass windows on your campus, to breathe in the air of New York suburbs.

Yes, tonight, I am dreaming of you, Drew, because I don't want to do my homework.

Daydreams and December Drizzle

I came here to study while I sip my gingerbread soy misto. Somehow, I've accomplished drinking even more pretentious drinks after graduating from my years of coffee shops.

I came here, opened a new document, intent on powering through 3000 words on the canonical interpretation of Malachi 4:5–6.

And yet, here I sit on a beautiful December day where the rain is falling but no one seems to care because Christmas is almost here. Here I sit, not working on my paper.

Instead, I smile as I think about seeing my family and handing them presents I'm sure they'll love. Here I sit, wondering if I could really write a paper on the theology of androgyny for my senior thesis. Here I sit wondering if I could really pull off painting the Starbucks Christmas bird on my lounge wall and if the girls would love it or think I've embraced capitalism.

Here I sit dreaming.

And I don't regret it.

Old Spirituals and Djembes

In August, I went on a retreat with some student leaders at Loyola. We headed out to the suburbs and stayed in a quaint cottage on a lake, eating food from the grill and making runs to local ice cream shops late at night. In the evening, as we quieted our hearts before God, we lit candles on the living room carpet and sang along with the gentle strumming of guitar that was behind us.
In the morning, when all 8 of us awoke from our deep suburban sleep, we decided to move our programming outside, to savor the morning dew and the pleasant sound of squirrels throwing walnuts on rooftops. Each grabbing a kitchen chair, we sat in the lawn in a tight circle, leaving the neighbors to wonder if we were a cult while they sat in their garages and watched us.
There, in our strangely created outdoor meeting room, we read morning psalms and sang souther spirituals, using the legs of our chairs as drums.

At LaSalle Street Church, everything was upgraded but the mood was the same. Instead of kitchen chairs on a lawn in a cul-de-sac, we sat in high-class folding armchairs, gazing out the window at the trees heavy with snow, watching urbanites stroll by in their hats of red and gold. Instead of using the legs of our chairs to carry the beat, a cute flutist pulled out a djembe and provided the rhythm for our singing of "I Heard the Voice of Jesus Calling."

Both times, I — a girl who goes to a folk liturgical church with at least a violin if not a full strings ensemble — just smiled.

There is beauty in music. It is not confusing in the least for me that Mozart, Bach, Hayden considered their work worship. However, there is something amazing about the lack of chords, something magical about a simple beat and voices singing in unison.

Sitting there on the suburban lawn or sitting in the glistening basement of LaSalle Street Church, God is worshipped when we direct our hearts toward him.

And, in closing, a prayer recited at every evening liturgy:
Glory to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit, as it was in the beginning, as it is now, and will be forever. Amen.

For the Love of Truth

I don't usually write political blogs. In fact, I find most political blogs arrogant and narrow-minded, a forum for some angry non-voting citizen to feel as if they are somehow making an impact on the world by typing about the quality of government.

I am not claiming to do any different, but as I read yet more articles on WikiLeaks, I feel like I need to say this:

We're asking the wrong questions.

The Opinionator in the New York Times is asking if we're helped by reading WikiLeaks and knowing what the government is lying to us about.
The Christian Science Monitor argues that Julian Assange, founder of WikiLeaks, is not to blame for the leaking of information, but the government officials who provided the information.
CNN asks, whose to blame for the damage that's been done?
MSNBC asks, how do we prosecute Assange since the documents weren't stolen but copied, moving this to an issue of intellectual property rights?

And, all along, I'm wondering why no one seems to be asking why our government is lying to us.

Sure, it has been since the beginning of time even before Plato wrote The Republic stating that different levels of people needed to have different access to information and rights.
And sure, there are certainly things that I don't need to know, like the drinking habits of Kim Jong Il (which, thanks to WikiLeaks, I now know).
But when my country is sending American soldiers to march alongside Pakistani soldiers in the battlefield and telling me they are merely doing training, I've got issues.
When the US has Yemen lying for them about the US's role in sniping Yemen citizens: I want to question our military protocol.

I'm not saying anything anti-military and I'm not suggesting the government should open up all their files.

But I am wondering if any of us really believe that being lied to is in our best interests. I'm wondering just how much deceit we'll accept from our country. I'm wondering at what point we cry out in the name of truth.

That's all I want. To know that my government respects me enough to at least say nothing in lieu of lying. To know that my government is conducting itself in such a way that it does not need to lie.

We impeached Clinton for lying under oath. Suddenly, that seems terribly ironic.

Pizza During Prayer

I went to LaSalle Street Church tonight. Sitting in a cute basement with an oddball group of people ranging from 8 years old to 88, I sat with a room of strangers and read prayers.
I liked it — not that you could tell from my actual presence or statements, but I did.

It was a world away from the place in which I daily worship God. It was unlike my liturgical church which holds tightly to creeds but even further removed from my Bible-only school that reeks of the Baptist tradition, without ever openly declaring it.

Only a few blocks down, I walked in its heavy wooden door and stumbled upon a secret world of pseudo-evangelicalism. A place where prayers are written on post-its, yet people kneel for confession.

It was beautiful, different and thought-provoking. I plan to have a series about this evening, if I can find enough energy to blog amid the sea of papers I am avoiding. Tonight, I want to start with the first thing I learned, stumbling into the doorway of this quaint church for a celebration of liturgy and Shane Claiborne's new book, Common Prayer: A Liturgy for Ordinary Radicals:


Danica and I stood in the back of the room, as forty people or so mingled over Diet Coke and cheese pizza. "Do you think this is it?" I asked, somehow expecting hipsters or hippies, but certainly not middle-aged 9 to 5-ers.

"Well, it said in the sanctuary on the tickets... do you think this is the sanctuary?"

Our confusion was obvious. Our lack of belonging even more so. Oreon, one of the many pastors within the church, came up to warmly greet us, asking us to grab some pizza and snag a chair to join in an evening of prayer.

She smiled and said, "And that's what we're going to do tonight: eat and pray. I think it says that somewhere in the Bible, that you are supposed to eat when you pray, right? I haven't found it yet, but I think its there somewhere."

She laughed at her own Bible joke, and I, uncomfortable with the incongruence of this place with my ideas of church, awkwardly commented about writing it in the margins of her bible.

I was in for a long night.

Halfway through the service, I realized what she said and what she missed: the Bible does say that we are to eat and pray. Its the Love Feast. Its the meeting of the New Testament church. It is what church is: eating and praying.

Acts 2:42,46-47 -- And they devoted themselves to the apostles' teaching and fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers. And day by day, attending the temple together and breaking bread in their homes, they received their food with glad and generous hearts, praising God and having favor with all the people.

The New Testament church had consistent potlucks: church was had around the table, sharing food together and praising God. This was their communion. In our communion, as we take the Eucharist, we are called to do the same thing — eat and pray:

Matthew 26:26 -- While they were eating, Jesus took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to his disciples, saying, "Take and eat. This is my body."

Take and Eat. For in doing so, we partake of Christ. Take and Eat. For in doing so, we join together for a common cause. We live as the united bride of Christ that we are.

Pizza and Prayer: it seems wrong to be munching on some greasy thin crust while singing to God that he is holy. And it might be.

But tonight, sitting in the basement, looking out at the snow covered branches in the park next door, with the candles lit for the Advent season, with a bearded man on a banjo playing Latin songs of praise, I savored this perfect slice of pesto pizza and praised God in the assembly of his believers.

In closing, a piece of the Saturday evening liturgy:
Lord, let your servant now rest in peace, for you have kept your promise. With my own eyes I see the salvation you prepared for all peoples, a light of revelation for the Gentiles and a glory to your people, Israel.

Silly Questions

Its like asking why a dog barks or a chicken lays an egg.

Sure, there is a scientific answer, but the much more practical one is simply: because that's what they do. Dogs bark. Chickens lay eggs.

Its like asking a toddler why the sky is blue. She will merely look at you confused, wondering why you beat her to the punch line, without understanding why the question is being asked of her.

Why am I procrastinating?

Because I am a college student. Because, if I plan to be an academic someday, I will spend many hours playing Gem Swap on Yahoo and browsing Facebook statuses. It is simply required of me.

But while, I scroll through your pictures from the 90s and align three green gems, and then four yellow, I will be thinking about Kierkegaard. As each gem falls into place, I will be outlining my paper in my subconscious, realizing that 20 pages is manageable. And when the game ends and I've looked at every last photo from your junior high days, I will head back to the pages, and type another page before resorting to a game of Diner Dash for old times sake.

Why do I procrastinate?

Because its a part of the process.

What's a G6?

Yesterday, my mom took me to Wal-Mart. (To be honest, I was quite excited about the trip. Wal-Mart! Now this is rural America.) As I typically do, I hopped in the car, turned the radio to a random hip-hop station and, upon realizing that this song is amazingly, also my favorite song, I spin the dial, causing the five cars surrounding us to also hear "Like a G6." Hands in the air, holding the beat in my shoulders, I was completely immersed in the world of my music. As the song reaches its repetitious maximum (because honestly, how many times can she say slizzard before I get bored?) and I return the volume to a non-damaging level, my mother looks at me, sincerely curious, and asks, "What's a G6?"

And with that, I smile and remember why I love being home. I love my mother. I love that she never grows tired of my antics (or at least hides her distaste well). I love that, regardless if I'm home for a weekend or a week, my mother will buy me soy milk — and then cook me breakfast every morning so I never have a chance to use it. I love that she always has an update on the dogs, informing me of their eating habits, the growth of their hair, their sleeping patterns.

I even love that every time we hop in the car and drive by the neighbor's house, she will tell me that she does not understand why they have a tennis court (No one is ever on it, she insists. She thinks she should come over and ask to play since no one ever uses that tennis court).

As much as I may mock her for stories, I love my mother and all of who she is. I love that she always wants to share her life with me, mindless details about the neighbors and all. And I wouldn't trade her — or her stories — for the world. She's my mom and I love her.

"It's a plane, Mom. A private jet."

"Oh." She smiles. "That's what I thought, but I didn't know."

And with that, we drive on to the land of cheap things made in China, just my mom and I and some awful rap music on empty Indiana roads.  This is what it means to be home.

Good Thing I Didn't Like Doritos in the First Place

Dr. McDuffee told us a story today that went something like this:

This young kid, Mike, came up to me the other day. He's homeless, strung out on coke, and he asked, "Can God make a Dorito so hot he can't eat it?" and I said to him, "Mike, why are you asking that question? Because it could be a good one. But if you have the wrong motives, you have to be careful — God might make you eat that Dorito."

And I wondered, as I stockpile library books for my theology projects, how many unbearable Doritos do I have awaiting me in heaven? How many times have I come to God, treating him like a hostage and badgering him for the answers or else?  How many times have I knocked down the curtain to the Holy of Holies and demanded that the truth be instilled upon me?

How many times have I tried to stick God, to catch him in a mistake, and prove myself superior to the Great I AM?

Lord, may I learn humility from the foot of the Cross. May I learn to seek your face and not simply your facts. May I learn to rightly see you as the God who is capable of far more than I can comprehend. May I never feel threatened by ungodly hot doritos.

What If Writing Is Just About Winning?

I've been writing a lot lately. Some for school, but most of my time lately has been sucked into writing essays for competitions, competitions with deadlines fast approaching. Each piece, as I come to concluding paragraph, makes me think that it is perfect, that my heart is embedded in these 3,000 words.

And then it strikes me.

Fear.

My heart races as I glance over the content. What ifs fill my mind and I forget to breathe.

What if they don't believe me?

What if they think my writing style is frustratingly sporadic with its numerous prepositional phrases and strange use of adverbs?

What if I can't find a faculty sponsor who has enough time to read my words and sign that it is thoughtful and well-written?

Or worse, what if they don't think its thoughtful?

What if, they read my heart-filled pages and think: mediocre.


What if, after all the hours poured into the language, into studying these topics into understanding what I believe about personhood and otherness; schizophrenia and my family, they simply add it to the pile, as another essay received, but not worthy of the prize?

Is it enough for me to write well, to write truth, to strive to say what I mean and to fight for what I believe in? Or is the goal to walk away with the prize, with a title that says I deserve recognition?

At the end of the day, if my story gets thrown into the pile and forgotten, has it lost its meaning, or was the purpose fulfilled simply in my writing of it?

Pouring Out The Past on Pages

It's not like its anything new: I've known the truth since I was 16 and my mother informed me of just why my parents' divorce was as painful and complicated as it was.

But writing it out, placing the words of the past onto neatly typed pages feels like razors sliding up my chest, puncturing my body, hoping to drain my heart of all that's within it.

There's something about declaring the truth that breaks you to pieces, that feels like are in the moment when you saw your parents fall from your pedestal, collapsing on the floor in all their brokenness, with scars exposed.

And yet, putting words to the feelings, as painful as it may be, allows God to redeem the moment and lets him take the heavy lifting for the pain.

Lord, may the testimony of my life bring you the glory. At the end of the day, I do not want someone to hear my pain and offer pity. I merely want them to come crawling to you, asking for you to heal. Lord, you are the healer of my soul. The redeemer of my story. The center of my life. May all glory and honor be to you.

Intimacy and Relationships

Gary Chapman is coming to Moody this week.

A week of inventories that tell me I do not like being touched, but I love being complimented.
A week of thinking about love and dating, and everything else intrinsically romantic.
A week to to think about relationship.

It couldn't come at a better time in my life. After finishing a philosophy project about relational personhood and after spending two weeks contemplating Martin Buber's I and Thou, I am ready to think about relationship.

But before you start placing me in the "Ring by Spring" category, let me tell you what I've really been thinking about: intimacy.

From uninterrupted eye contact with a friendly and attractive acquaintance to a long walk home from church with an old friend, this week has reminded me what it means to be vulnerable, to experience intimacy the way God intended.

And its horrifying. In a meeting on Wednesday, I was asked to gaze deeply into the eyes of a fellow RA and say nothing for 3 minutes. I was uncomfortable with the idea, and if I would have been given enough time, I probably could have come up with a philosophical reason why I was against it, but in the moment, I sat with my legs crossed on the floor, like a kindergardener, and stared into the eyes of man I hardly know. I laughed at first, but as the nervousness began to show in my eyes, I knew he could read my uneasiness. The clock ticked slowly and with each penetrating stare, I felt like he was reading the secrets of my soul, as if my eyes were a teleprompter, scrolling through every thought, every desire, every weakness within me. Worse yet, I felt as if I was a trespasser into his soul; I was walking where I had not been invited.

When the speaker's timer went off, Joe wanted to chat about it and I gave blank statements about what I was feeling then promptly ran away, feeling violated for what he knew of me now in our silence, yet feeling like a creeper for reading his eyes for every trace of his soul and feeling like I might have found it.

They say eyes are the window to the soul, and there might be validity in that statement, but I would rather be invited in the front door than gaze in someone's window.

4 days later, in a rebellious moment, Emma and I skipped Sunday School and walked home from church. We had little to say and spent most of our walk discussing graffiti and tagging, wondering what really changes graffiti into 'street art.' Yet, walking side by side with one of my best friend, never looking into her eyes, I remembered just what it means to care about another person as a whole being.

If I wanted to, I could probably write you a list of reasons why Emma is a worthwhile human being. I could scribble down attributes that I find admirable and definitions of what makes us friends. Yet, I assure you, if numerical value could be given to each quality she possesses, the sum of my list, no matter comprehensive, could never equal my value for her. Likewise, if I went on a trip around world, casting for the role of a new Emma in my life, I assure you, even applicants that outshine her in every attribute that I appreciate, would be no replacement for her. I value Emma, as a whole being.

I may not have gazed deeply into her eyes, but there is something to be said about the intimacy of the relationship I have with her. We were made to value people as whole beings. We are designed to love others, to care for them not for the sum of their uses, but for their essential being.

I'll stop before I get into a theological treatise about personhood and otherness, or worse, script out the secrets of one of my three essays on the matter.

Instead, I'll end on this:
Matthew 26:36–46: When Jesus most needed his disciples to be with him, they fall asleep and disappoint him. When Christ rebukes them, he does not focus on his need, but on theirs.
Romans 15:2–3a: "Let each of us please his neighbor for his good, to build him up. For Christ did not please himself."

Jesus: The Crazy Cultic Con Man

I've been reading through my old journals a lot lately. This morning, I stumbled upon a rather comical commentary on Mark 1:35–39:

Jesus is quite possibly the worst houseguest. We focus so much on Jesus rising early to pray. All right and good — Jesus spent intimate time with the Father. But what about how his friends felt? So everyone is exhausted after a long day's work and they are OUT. But when they wake up, Jesus is gone. He's like a cultic con man. Follow me — and then he peaces out. So they're flippin', thinking "Where on earth is Jesus?" Mark, unlike Matthew, doesn't portray Jesus as crazy, but Matthew and John for sure make him to be a weird kid. I mean, he talks oddly.
Anyways, Simon and his motley crew realize that their crazy cool miracle-working weirdo friend is gone when they wake up. They gave up everything to follow him, so they aren't going to let him disappear that easily, and they go on a hunt. When they finally find him in the middle of nowhere, alone, he doesn't even respond to their cry "What the heck!" He just says, "Surprise! You found me. Let's head out."
If I were them, I wouldn't be too sure about this character. I would be pretty distant from this madman. He's crazy awesome, but so strange.

Poem From The Heavens

I wonder if this is how God sees us,
specks of peach amid his green creation.

I wonder if, when we pray,
he plays Where's Waldo with all the houses with matching roofs,
looking for the weeping voice among the sea of words.

I wonder if, when he sees the crash coming,
he hopes for the best — for the taxi to swerve left
and the sedan to slam on its brakes —
and cries as the cabbie pummels into the small family
while talking on his cell phone.

I wonder if, when we see him face to face,
he'll hold us up like a tiny figurine in his palm,
lifting his hand to the tip of his nose,
squinting hard to see our details, and think,
"Hmm, just as I imagined she would be."

The Spirit and Salvation

I had 3 goals this morning: Go for a Run, Get Dressed and Read Romans.

I've started one, will do another and have completely given up on the idea of having my nose frostbitten while I watch thick clouds of my breath being released into the winter air.

After reading a collection of articles in the New York Times, and feeling redeemed as a conscientious participant in the global community, I climbed into my window with a cup of Costa Rican coffee and opened up to Romans 6, where I had left off the following afternoon.

Flashback to September 29: sitting in front of the class, defending my research on Romans 6:2–4, I vehemently opposed my professor, insisting that there was no rite of baptism in the passage, only a recognition of the Spirit. I insisted that one is able to know that the Spirit is alive and active in one's life, even if, in the moment, a person feels "unspiritual" or "unsanctified." We can look back at our lives and testify to the work of God within us.

And so, reading through Romans 6, 7 and 8, I keep reflecting on the Spirit as Paul talks about it almost as much as I have lately.
Rom 7:6 "So that we serve not under the old written code but in the new life of the Spirit."
Rom 8:2 "For the law of the Spirit of life has set you free in Christ Jesus from the law of sin and death."
Rom 8:9a "You, however, are not in the flesh but in the Spirit, if in fact the Spirit of God dwells in you."

And so it so clear that Paul has a high pneumatology, seeing the Spirit as that which brings us new life. That which brings us hope.

I think that's a fairly uncontroversial point.

Rom 8:9b "Anyone who does not have the Spirit of God does not belong to him."
Rom 8:14 "For all who are led by the Spirit of God are sons of God."
Rom 8:16 "The Spirit himself bears witness with our spirit that we are children of God."

How are we assured of our salvation? Paul does not say that you reflect on the day you said "the sinner's prayer" or the day you were baptized or confirmed in the Church. Paul does not say that there is any particularly physical moment in which you know you are Christian. Paul says you know you are Christian by the action of the Spirit. If you don't have the Spirit, you aren't a Christian. If you are not led by the Spirit, you are not a son of God. If the Spirit isn't proclaiming your sonship along with your spirit, you are not a child of God.

Rom 6:2–4, I still contend, is not about a rite. There is no water in this passage. For there to be water, Paul would need SOMEWHERE to say that we know we are saved by a particular memory.

He doesn't.

And maybe all of this comes out of my recent Kierkegaardian obsession with the incompetence of the physical church and the limited nature of "true" Christianity. Maybe it all comes out of my recent attack on the need for assurance and our self-centered reading of soteriology.

Or maybe I'm on to something.

Here's my big point: On the days I am unconfident in my faith, in those times where I feel God is distant from me, I should not look back to the day when I was 8 years old and laid on my bed talking to God for the first time (although it is a sweet moment). When I feel distant from God, I instead need to go back to those moments in which I am sure God was real. Those moments where I knew that God was leading me or comforting me or assuring me. I go back to those moments, and desperately ask God to assure me again.  Because salvation is not about my doing. Its about God's action and participation in my life.

And with that extended sidetrack, I'll go back to my window, gaze out at a city still sleeping, and hope that at some point, I actually get dressed.

Beautiful Feet

(I had something eloquent to write, but seeing as my mind is having a hard time in Ingles, my writing is reduced to simple words.)

Tonight, I was invited to the National Theatre in San Jose. It is a gorgeous place, intricately painted and decorated in gold lame. The theatre itself is quite small, but as all of the Old World elegance expected of a place produced by rich Spanish colonialists.

At the theatre, Lizziey and I were the only white people at a play about the history of Cartago, a city a few minutes outside of San Jose. It was the first city established in the Central Valley of Costa Rica. A beautiful place, home of healing water and ancient church ruins.

I understood almost none of the speech, although the full 2 hours was narrated. I could only read the language in their bodies, as they contorted their frames to tell the history of a place complete with loose women and magical fruit. From traditional Latin dancing to sections of modern dance, this performance never left you bored. One of the final songs included the story of the headless priest who haunts Cartago who came dancing in on stilts.

I was enamored with the presentation. Moreso by the hospitality of my hosts, who bought our tickets and made sure we got the opportunity to see true Tico culture.


Thus far, I have not seen the Costa Rica of postcards. I have been to no rainforests, no mountains, no beaches. My time has been spent in San Jose, the "big apple" of Costa Rica, but a city that feels much more like an overgrown village.

Yet, while my trip has not been iconic, it has been remarkably perfect. I hopped off the plane and went straight to a huge party for a girl who I had never met, complete with a handsome Tico man asking for my email (despite our major language barrier.) The following day, I got to sit in the place of honor at the Basilica in Cartago and tour the ruins, followed by a mountaintop dinner at a Tico steakhouse. Tomorrow, they are taking us to Poas, a nearby active volcano.

I would not trade an entire week in the jungle for this week in the city. These people are amazing, and I would rather take 5 days with people who restore my hope in humanity than 5 days lounging on the beach, working on my tan and drinking Imperial. Aqui, en Costa Rica, yo han hallazgo mi familia.

Ambition

My biggest downfall is my own ambition.

Somewhere in Jesus' parables it says that to whom much has been given, much will be required.  I know I have been given much, and it makes me anxious to use my gifts wisely. There are days where I fret about my future, wanting to do something glorious for God: write books with my name on the cover, teach theology in the African bush, mentor women who will become something. On those days where I lay out my options and debate what I can do, I realize that I've taken the idea of God's glory and replaced it with my own.

Last year on winter retreat, a speaker asked us what we wanted written on our tombstones. My epitaph was this: "Larissa Atkinson, a child of God, a servant of Christ Jesus."

There was no clause that said, "because she wrote sweet theology books" or "because she was really famous and still Christian" or even a phrase "because she did a lot."  My epitaph was about my identity in Christ, not in the things I have done.

Waiting at the bus stop on the way home from church, a new friend told me of his plans to go to law school. They were beautiful. I quickly wanted to do likewise, thinking that I love politics and I am intelligent, and I'm a theology major (which I learned, makes me naturally more inclined to do well on the LSAT). I wanted to do big things, live a big life, DO something for God.

I believe dearly that God intends to use me. Yet, at the end of the day, it is not about what I do, but who I am. Where is my identity? In doing things for God or loving him?

May I learn to walk humbly in his presence and live for his glory and not my own.

On Last Minute Research Papers

Right now, I'm staring at page 4, wondering how 9 more pages are going to fall on this page before midnight.

Right now, I'm looking at my pile of research and asking, "What would Augustine have said? What is the Orthodox view on this? What would Anselm have said? What would Rob Bell say?"

Right now, I'm saying things because I must, not because I've truly come to any conclusions, or feel adequately grounded in my solutions.

Right now, I'm daydreaming of my doctoral thesis in which I will be able to exhaust all my research hope and then some. When I'll have a year to write one paper, not just a day.

Right now, I'm procrastinating.

Praying for the Sick

Once when I was ten, I had a huge project I had not yet done. It was starting to get near my bedtime, and the 2 page paper loomed in future. What would I do? Would I stay up until 10 to finish my work, or would I simply go to bed and deal with the reality that I did not do all I was supposed to?

I choose a third option. I went to sleep and prayed to God that I would be sick so that I could skip school the next day and do my homework.

I started throwing up a few hours later, took the day off, and finished my assignment.

12 years later, I lay in bed at 2 am and pray that I get healthy so I can have a hope of finishing this paper.

Funny how things change.

Winter Rest

I frequently complain of winter. I hate the way the bitter wind blows into my eyes, producing tears that freeze as soon as they fall, leaving me looking like a Precious Moments figurine. I hate the snow and how it turns brown so quickly in this city, reminding me of the toxins I breathe in when I go out for some "fresh air." I hate the way the road gets covered in ice and noisy trucks drive by outside my window in the middle of the night to put salt on the road which will only ruin my favorite suede shoes or my new leather boots.

I hate winter.

But I love fall.

I love the smell of bonfires and potpourri. I love to walk through the city's version of a pumpkin patch where small pumpkin shaped gourds are placed in the zoo and city children pretend to "pick them" from the garden. I love pumpkin spice lattes and warm apple pie enjoyed with good friends, reminiscing about childhood memories of jumping in piles of leaves and making turkeys out of our handprints.

I think God loves fall as much as I do.

Yet I was told on Sunday, that for theological reasons, I should hate fall and winter and love only spring and summer, for autumn is when things die and as Christians we cherish life and not death. I quieted my mouth but my thoughts did not follow and I wondered why I loved watching leaves die and fall off trees, or why I love the fake pumpkins in the park.

Today, I saw a squirrel gleefully run around a tree, hopping from acorn to acorn, taking in his fall abundance. I watched him ignore the students who passed by, seeing him enjoy his bounty as he prepared for his winter rest.

And then it struck me. Fall and winter are not so much about death as they are about rest. For a few months a year, God quiets the earth and tells it to simply be. The trees do not need to bud, the flowers do not need to bloom, the animals can fall asleep.

And I wonder when we started seeing death in what is truly rest, wondered when we decided that not doing something was bad, when we decided that we were made to always move, to always bloom, to always do.

So today, as the leaves start to turn and the apples are being picked, I am stopping and resting, knowing God has always ordered rest.

Who do you think you're better than?

The man on the street who sells fake designer handbags speaks French fluently.

And you thought you were cultured.

Theology Jokes OR The Paradox of Faith.

I am having an existential crisis.

Theologically, I believe that God is sovereign, yet equips us with a free will, made in his own image. I believe that I have a soul that will live when my body dies and the two are necessarily separate. I believe Christianity is the only way to heaven. It is the design of God and his plan from the beginning.

Philosophically, I believe that every action has a cause, and with it, every cause has a cause. I am inherently deterministic. Everything has a reason established in its mechanics. Not totally a materialist, I understand the world as necessarily logical and building upon itself. I am a monist. I believe we are one psychosomatic unit. I do not think we are divided in two for God did not make Adam's body and then his soul, but he made Adam (for even my philosophy is theocentric). Philosophically, I am Hegelian. I believe the world is full of theses that will confront antitheses and the two will merge. We are but two choices in option at any time, and one will win out, but will not be the end for another alternative will arise. I believe that to my philosophical core.

So what then? Do I embrace my philosophical side and affirm things that then put my theology — and with it God's attributes – into question? Or do I accept my theology, claim it to be a divine mystery, and wallow in the sadness of my mysticism which fails to see faith as a part of reality?

In the end, I make no choices and instead make a joke only philosophical theology majors understand:

What happens when everything you believe theologically contradicts with everything you believe philosophically?

Answer: You become a trichotomist.

Scribbling in the Margins

I'm giving a book report tonight on an awesome book I read called Stronger Than You Think by Kim Gaines Eckert.

Scribbled in the margins is this:
"God, even as I question you, I marvel in the beauty of nature. You created a masterpiece. So why did you put us messed-up people into it?"

I don't think God makes mistakes, but he did, the first was Adam.

Spiritually Bankrupt

I'm trying to grasp what the New Perspective on Paul actually teaches. I'm light years away from understanding it, but all this time spent in Pauline thought has me thinking about faith and works, and how the two are manifested in my life.

Romans 3:23-24, "For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God and are justified by his grace as a gift, through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus."
We've all heard the first part, but its v. 24 that I find important: All are justified by God's grace as a gift.


A part of me wants to read that and say, "So do what you want! God's grace is more than enough for you. It covers a multitude of sins. Works don't matter!"

That viewpoint is reaffirmed by Romans 4:5, "And to the one who does not work but trusts him who justifies the ungodly, his faith is counted as righteousness."

So there we have it. Go, sin boldly, as Cathleen Falsani would have you believe.

But there is one problem: Romans 4:4 comes before 4:5.

"Now to the one who works, his wages are not counted as a gift but as his due."

Gifts don't work like that. If you give me a scarf, and I start knitting for you, you don't tell me that my knitting is like payment for my scarf.

Bankruptcy works like that. Bankruptcy says, "Pay what you can. It won't be enough, but I will take all of your striving and apply it to your account. In the end, I'll still handle the total balance, because you do not have enough. But do what you can."

Plenty of people don't. Plenty of people declare bankruptcy, and do not think twice about reducing their glamourous lives. Plenty of people abuse the system and serve themselves through the system.

Imagine, if instead of the government, your father was paying your balance. Your father graciously gave you all that you need and did not ask that you pay it back, but knowing you were unable, offered it freely as a gift.

Would you try, at least a little, to do better next time?

We are spiritually bankrupt. Our heavenly Father knows that our debt is more than we can handle. He does not ask that we work our way out of it. However, what we do is not something that gets us bonus points, it simply goes towards what is due. We work, not so we can boast in being better than the next guy, but so that we can show we honor our Father. So that we can declare to God that we believe in his rules. That we live by his faith. That we desire to be his.

Are we saved by works?  No, of course not. But we work because we are saved.

I can't decide if today is for depth or humor. 

Today, I vary between frivolous thoughts of men who might be perfect for me and deep realizations of the pain of my past, all while throwing in a philosophical discussion of subjectivity and cultural expectations.

One thing is certain: I wouldn't trade today for anything.

Here's to a year spent lying in the sun, breathing in the city pollution while pretending the air is fresh and teaching myself new lessons about God and marveling in his unfathomable grace and beauty.

This is senior year, part 2.

Identity.

I remember the exact moment I decided I was a runner. It was a Saturday in late October, and I in my brand new running jacket, when out for an 8 miler. It was barely 40 degrees and the rain was trickling out of the sky, allowing my bangs to absorb the moisture until they simply couldn't take it anymore and began to drip cold rain drops on my nose. The wind was bitter on the lakefront, and for one of the first times in my running experience, the shore line wasn't beautiful. The clouds looked angry and ominous, falling closer to the ground, threatening to make me blind as my visibility dropped to only inches in front of my face.
Four miles in, I smiled between heavy breaths and thought this was a beautiful way to spend an ugly morning. I looked at my feet extending one in front of the other and told myself today I was not just a girl out for a run, but I was a runner.
That day in late October, I allowed myself to be identified. To put myself in a category and to embrace it warmly.
To be fair, others had called me a runner for months, but a label only matters when you accept it.

Over the course of my brief life, I have chosen to be called any number of things. I am a teacher's pet, an honors student, a speech nerd, a math geek, a Bible school student. I am an RA, a nanny, a librarian and a barista. I am cute. I am intellectually inclined, vintagely appareled, and utterly un-athletic.

So when my identity is wrapped up in the things I do or the people I see, it is possible for me to lose myself entirely.

16 days ago, I went to the hospital with immense pain in my lower back. After a few tests were run, I was diagnosed with a herniated disc and an inflamed SI joint. I would recover without surgery, but I would forever need to modify my lifestyle. There would be no more carelessly lifting children or quickly grabbing gallons of milk at a coffee shop. There would be significantly fewer runs, and even fewer on the concrete lakeshore path that I had grown to love. I was also warned that it might be several months before I could even go for a light, short jog. I would not be able to decorate my floor unassisted. Not be able to enroll in dance classes. Unable to even unpack my own boxes in order to move from one place to the next. Who I was – the things that I did – were taken from me.

For that, God was to blame. It was his fault that this happened so abruptly. His fault that I could not be who I was designed to be. I was hurt and angry and had no one to blame but God and my father's bad genes.

My floor theme for this coming year is all about identity and being complete. At first I explained it as the need for women to be independent. The idea that they deserved to be their own person. A woman needed to have an identity apart from who they might be, and embrace who they are.

It sounded more like a self-help book than a Christian dorm theme.

After my disc herniation, I hobbled my way into my parents' glamorous church for Celebration Sunday. The pastor preached no sermon, and we sung few hymns. The short service consisted mostly of recognizing the growth of the church and the way that congregation had learned to love others. In between clapping for new baptisms and mission trips, the pastor would read Bible verses that seemed unconnected.

Annoyed by the lack of context, I began looking up the verses for myself.  One absorbed my attention. John 15:5 -- [Jesus speaking] "I am the vine; you are the branches. If a man remains in me and I in him, he will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing."
Verse 6 continues the thought -- "If anyone does not remain in me, he is like a branch that is thrown away and withers; such branches are picked up, thrown into the fire, and burned."

In the winter, branches on the tree look about the same as branches off the tree. Both have leaves that have withered away. Both are barren and ugly. For those who abide, they are not granted constant foilage; they must sit for a season cloaked in ice and being threatened with death. Before they can produce new leaves and begin to bear fruit, they must remain empty.

It may be August, but I am in the middle of winter. I have remained barren long enough and begun to grab a hot glue gun and bedazzle my tree. I have started to add my own beauty to my life and started to give it new meaning and purpose. One shiny red gem for my great ability to make A's. A blue one for my stellar job as a barista, and a huge pink stone for my impeccable gift of leading in a posture of humility.

My branch glistens in the sun and anyone who walks through this forest, will see me standing out in the dead of winter.

The problem is, my branch is so heavy with these plastic jewels, that its starting to break away from its source. Worse yet, even if I could cling on until Spring, there is no room for me to blossom. I have no space for fruit. No availability for God to produce in me something new and beautiful. When Spring comes, I will be the one without leaves. The one that looks misplaced, that has failed to be naturally beautiful.

You see, God has a plan for my life. He has a way he wants to use me, and it requires me placing my identity in him. It requires that I be who he desires me to be, and not some cheap flashy product that no longer resembles the tree.

In order for me to grow, I need to pull off what makes me who I am and allow myself to be barren and empty and open for God to produce new fruit.  The problem is, I am not strong enough to detach these things from me on my own. Problem is, I like my gems. I know they are worthless. I know that being a good RA isn't all I'm supposed to be. It may be something that is true of me, but it is not who I am. The same is true of my extracurriculars, of my workout habit, of the clothes that I wear. Truth is, I like who I've made myself into.

Sometimes, when I'm really honest, I tell God that. I tell him that I know that who he wants me to be is better than anything I have for myself. I tell him that I trust that he will use me for his glory and my good.  But, with tears trickling down my cheeks, I tell him I'm not willing to be that person yet. I tell him that I'm pretty comfortable right here.

Sometimes, God helps me out, and not always very gently. When I herniated my disc, God was making it easier for me to let go of my false identity. He took a razor blade and removed all that was flashy from my branch, and left me exposed, bark and gems removed. Laying on the couch, unable to even tie my shoes, God asked me to remain empty for a while.

You see, the thing about winter is that it prepares you for Spring. If we didn't have a season with nothing, we wouldn't be able to grow anew. We'd be left with rotting apples hanging from our branches, stifled from new growth. Right now, I feel more vulnerable and removed from God than I have in a long time. But truth is, in this period of unknown, in this longing for purpose, God is preparing me to be a new creation. He's allowing me to start over in forming my identity.

I have a choice. I can choose to be a model student, a fantastic RA, a dutiful librarian. Or, I can choose to be a child of God, redeemed by the blood of the Cross, who has been given abounding grace and mercy from the Father so that he may perform a good work in me – one who just happens to be an RA and work at a library and loves school.  It is less about what I do, and more about what I identify myself as. Right now, as hard as it, I'm working on abiding in Christ and letting myself be His.

I am a work in progress, a sculpture being modeled by the Father.

Who are you?

Stalking God

I finished Evolving in Monkey Town today. Somewhere near the end, she says something along the lines of "Faith is like a book in a foreign language; sometimes, you just have to hold onto the mystery." (I'm terribly annoyed that I didn't get that quote right, or even particularly close, just so you know).
It reminded me of a Death Cab for Cutie song, which tells you more about my pseudo-emergent, hipster roots than anything else, but the link was important.

I will Possess Your Heart starts out: "How I wish you could see the potential, the potential of you and me. Its like a book elegantly bound but in a language that you can't read, just yet."

I wonder, if God is like the antique Swedish book my grandmother gave me, with its fine gold-leaf scrolling and letters I can't identify, I wonder what I'm supposed to do with him.

I have grown up being asked to dole out answers. And I like doing it. I like sounding like the authority, being the one who always will steer you in the right direction. In high school, I would never admit to not knowing something. Instead, I would simply make something up, and see if anyone ever doubted me (They rarely did).

Lately, I  think I've started to do the same thing with God. To be perfectly honest: I have no idea if God elected us before we were born. I don't know how God speaks to us, or if he has a clear cut will for my life. I'm not sure when or how the world was created and I do not know how the world will end. Yet, there are papers floating around academia with my name attached to particular trains of thought. There are people who can without a doubt assure people that I believe in literary framework theory for Genesis or that I am a staunch Pre-Trib Dispensationalist.

I've grabbed my red ink pen and inserted English characters over the Swedish writing, creating my own novel and telling everyone that this is what truth is.

The song by Death Cab is the greatest stalker song of my generation. The man is suggesting that he will learn the language of this book that seems so nice on the outside -- he will win over her heart.

Am I playing the same game with God? Am I forcing myself to learn his novel at the expense of knowing him?

The Swedish novel my grandmother gave me has sat on my shelf since I was 12. I have never once thought about learning Swedish or getting rid of the book. Instead, every now and then, I pull the book off the shelf, and wipe the dust from its cover. I gently flip through the brittle pages and run my finger over the slightly raised text. I smile and breathe in the memories that I've had with my grandmother, imagining her mother reading this book in a land that seems wholly imaginary to me.

The point is not to read the story but to embrace my heritage: to soak in who I am and where I came from. And I think, increasingly lately, that may be the point of my faith as well.

Instead of living in the presence of God and using his word as a tool to grow deeper in love with him, I've turned it into a textbook to give me the history of the world. I've used it like a crystal ball to determine my future. I've used it as poison to shove down the throats of those who theologically disagree.  I've tried to learn the language, missing the beauty of the unknown. I've started to stalk God, determining to know all of his details, demanding that I find out the truth.

Lessons for Smart Kids

I have always been smart. Stick me in a classroom or hand me a book, and I will spout out information to you as if I were born with a brain full of theology and mathematics.
Funny then that I am not a quick learner. In life, I take my dear sweet time learning lessons. I rarely learn from my mistakes, and more frequently repeat them leisurely.

This week, I am packing up my small set of belongings and preparing to move back to Smith 423, to my quiet little room with the view of a stairwell in Crowell hall. I'm sad for summer to be over and to be adding four miles to the commute to visit one of my closet friends who I've had the joy of sharing a room with for the past 3 months. Yet, I am the happiest packer you've ever met. As I sit putting hefty philosophy books back in boxes for a few days, I dream of the Fall and all it will bring. I think of my big plans: a floor with small groups, two ministry teams, Bible studies at Loyola, a new RA small group, elaborate cro-sis retreats, volunteering at my wonderful Covenant Presbyterian, running another 15k. I giggle with joy at the tasks I've lined up for myself and stifle any emerging fear of overcommitment.

Overcommitment is my recurrent sin. I am great at doing things. Horrible at moderating things. I run on overdrive until I kill my engine, get the flu and lie in bed unmovable for 4 days. Its my preferred method of control.

This time, my engine quit before I even took off. I had only recently started my upward climb to heavenly busyness when my back broke, and I was left screaming in pain in the ER and crying at the realization that I wouldn't be running for a long time.

I had made a lot of plans. I had charted my course for the following day, week, semester. I was scheduled, but my body chose to ignore it. Lying on the couch, sedated by heavy narcotics, I watched as my agenda cleared itself out. I lied there wondering what I would still be able to do. I cried everyday, realizing that my life was over.

I told Talia last night that I was sad — an emotion I usually deny I am capable of having. I told her that I felt like who I was had been stripped from me. I couldn't run – I couldn't even shave legs without help. I had no appetite, I had to give up my coffee shop, I had to spend my days lying in bed, I didn't want to talk to anyone. I have no idea what she said in response. In fairness, it was probably sweet and thoughtful. But admitting how I was filling was enough to trigger something — relief. I'm not happy to have chronic pain, but I am grateful.

Every day has been a lesson for me. I am learning about margins – slowing realizing that I need to be able to have the flexibility to collapse without everything falling apart in my life. I'm learning that I was not designed to be self-sufficient, but designed to rely on others. I was designed to live in community — which means asking for help moving and even asking for help to grab a book from the top shelf at Barnes and Noble. It means having the willingness to let someone else handle something without needing to perfect the details. I'm also learning about humility, as I hobble to the el and have to wait on the elevator while innocent passer-bys glare at me for being lazy. It means finding a sense of humor when the girl next to you on the train looks mortified by the grotesque bruise on your arm that looks like you've been abused, when really you just had a nurse with bad aim.

So, maybe this time I'll learn my lesson. We'll see.

I wonder if I could ever write God memoirs. I'm amazed by them. Intrigued. I sit down at Borders with a giant stack and smile. I flip through chapters, breathe in the varied writing styles, snicker at the naivety of some of their theological thoughts and contemplate the sentences of genius which follow.

I read and I wonder if I'll ever write something as pretty as I Am Hutterite. As witty as Angry Conversations with God. As profound as Confessions of a Guilty Bystander.

I want to. I want to journey with God on the page. To express my doubts and my profound thoughts of God on an ivory page, with a typeface I find flattering. I want to write things so candid that I regret publishing them. I want to pluck out my thoughts and arrange them into a story that screams for someone to read them — words that beg for someone to say "I know what you mean!"

Truthfully, I long to write solely so I can be affirmed in my doubts, in my thoughts. Somedays I feel closeted. I feel as if I am handcuffed to a set of beliefs that coincide with my school of choice. Sometimes I feel as if I have been sentenced to a life of evangelicalism and am burdened with the weight of my minority.

To be fair, most days I affirm the thoughts of my alma mater. Most days, I breathe in the truth they give me and sigh with relief that I live in a place God would be happy with.

But there are days where I wonder if that is true. Sometimes I wonder if I am too postmodern, too subjectivistic, too liberal to be happy where I am. I wonder if I simply have accepted the beliefs of my culture and am too terrified to step out on my own. I wonder if I even believe what I believe.

Today, as I flipped through Evolving in Monkey Town, Rachel Held Evans states something like, "At some point, you have to distinguish the difference between doubting God and doubting what you believe about God. One will cripple you, the other will only strengthen you."

So here I am, willfully stating that I am doubting what I believe about God, but firmly believing in God. Funny enough, there is so much comfort for me in naming my doubt, and fully indulging in it.

My Herniated Disc

This has been a week of medical firsts for me. It was the first time I saw my mother have major surgery, my first trip to the ER (that I can remember), my first panic attack, my first CT scan, my first MRI, my first herniated disc, my first major allergic reaction.
So, in honor of my lovely lower lumbar region, I have created a playlist.

The Herniated Disc:

1) Something Wrong by the Bang Gang
2) Hospital Beds by the Cold War Kids
3) What Sarah Said by Death Cab for Cutie
4) Your Rocky Spine by the Great Lake Swimmers
5) Get Back by the Beatles
6) Leaving the Hospital; I'm going home by The Dreamer and the Sleeper
7) Back Broke by The Swell Season
8) I Hurt Too by Katie Herzig
9) The Cure for Pain by Jon Foreman
10) Take Your Medicine by Cloud Cult
11) Modern Chemistry by Motion City Soundtrack
12) You Can Do It by Ice Cube
13) Dare You to Move by Switchfoot
14) I've Seen Better Days by Sublime
15) Be OK by Ingrid Michaelson

I heard tonight the most beautiful prayer.

Tears trickling down her cheeks, her voice hesitant she said, "God, you promised to be the light in the darkness, and I feel utterly in the dark. Show yourself to me."

And I thought, if God screened our prayers, this one would certainly go through.

Lord, you promised.

Self-Pity and Manmade Happiness

I have not had a good day.

It started poorly at 4 am when I woke up with a cramp in my leg that made me wince and woke me from my less than delicate sleep that had only just begun.
It continued with the cramps that shook my abdomen and caused me to roll out of bed, text my work out partner and lay in my bed and cry.

My coffee tasted funny.
I was too sleepy to pay attention in chapel, despite one of my favorite professor's speaking.
I was late to Greek and stormed in during prayer.
Lunch was unappetizing.
I remembered that I was a bad daughter.
I was anonymously told I was a terrible spiritual leader.
Also, immodest and unapproachable.

So I called my mom.
Whose ovaries are growing more cysts.
Who informed me that Brad, her husband, is physically degenerating.

And then, I gave up. Today was a day that wasn't meant to happen. I knew there was redemption in this. I knew that today could only be as bad as I made it, and yet, crying on Sweeting lawn, I gave up.

And went to jogging class, with a paper that was late, and a sheet that declared that I had failed not one, but both of my goals.

And I left jogging class, exhausted physically and emotionally. Depleted. Utterly alone.

Sweat dripping from my brow, I collapsed onto my bed, dejected.  On the table beside my desk was a collection of writings by Thomas Merton that I had used as an illustration the night before. I flipped it open and read the next small thought of Merton:

"God gives us the gift and capacity to make our own happiness out of our own situation. And it is not hard to be happy, simply by accepting what is within reach, and making of it what we can."

If we lie aside all the potential theological differences between he and I, he's got something worthwhile for me to hear. I make of this moment what I want. I can choose to be dejected that some people don't think I'm spiritual enough, loving enough, modest enough. Or I can choose to read the other side of my RA evaluations and see that I am doing something right. That I've made a lot of progress since last semester. That God is transforming me.

I can choose to be happy or I can choose to have a bad day.

So this is me, choosing manmade happiness instead of self-pity.

Sabotaging Salvation

I have a bone to pick with our modern, evangelical understanding of salvation. I've expressed frequently my distaste for our created imagery of Jesus being in our heart, as if he were something little, physical and furry. But, today, I'm going back further than that, I have an issue with the terminology that defines it. "Salvation" is wrong.

I am sitting in Panera, my hideaway on mornings when community is the last thing I desire. Opening my Bible to Mark, I begin to throw questions at the text, asking every possible thing I can and roughhousing the pages, hoping for an answer to emerge.

Coming to the final story in Mark 1, of Jesus healing a leper who can't keep his mouth shut, I wondered how I should feel about this leper's defiance. Jesus told him, sternly, to tell no one. Instead, he tells everyone, freely, as the text would word it.

And I wondered why Jesus cared so much. I concluded that Jesus didn't want these healed people to talk because it made it about what he could do instead of who he was. I mean, Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, the only perfect human being ever alive. He deserves the attention, but not because he changed the leper's spots or he can make your party costs go down by turning water into wine. Logically, then, Jesus would be aggravated, irritated, annoyed with crowds of people who come to him asking for things. Either they want to be healed or they want to see people be healed. They want something from him. They want what he can do, not who he is.

Then it dawned on me. We do this all the time. We want what Jesus offers. What is the heart of Western Christianity? SALVATION. What is salvation? What Jesus did for me. Its Jesus' WORK on the cross. Why do people come to faith? Because they want what Jesus has to offer. We've turned it into a business transaction. I'll say some prayers, stop sleeping around and go to church in exchange for eternal life in a mansion on a golden street and I heard something about some crowns too. Sounds like I've got the good end of the deal.

And it is that which drives me insane. Why are we Christians?  Well, by the way we talk about it, we're Christians because we've decided to accept a deal with Christ.

Why was the Messianic secret such a big thing in the Gospels? Because Jesus didnt' want people to come to him wanting something.

So here's my point. We look at Jesus wrong. Why is our soteriology so much higher than our Christology?  What if we took time to look at Jesus for who he is, and not what he did?

Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, the Chosen One. Jesus is God. He can do all things. He had a hand in creation, and he will have a hand in the destruction of this world as well. In him we live and move and have our being.

Our Jesus has proven himself worthy of worship. Even if he did not choose to save us (and I do believe that was the choice of the triune God, not inherently necessary), we should still bow down before him. We should worship God and be Christians not because of anything he has done for us, but simply for who he is.

So, for all of those people who want assurance of their salvation, I have this to say.  It doesn't matter. You want to be assured you'll get into heaven? You're looking at his work and not at him. Worship him with all that you are because he deserves it. If somehow, you are not saved, Jesus is still worthy of praise and honor.

Sour Wine for a Suffering Savior

I have been thinking about bit roles lately. I have been lavishing my attention on the two verse characters of Matthew; the people who we overlook, acting as if they are merely a part of the plot, rather than beautiful creatures of God.

It so is, that this quiet Friday night, I'm reading the Crucifixion story hoping to read it with virgin eyes, desiring to not gloss the text as one who has heard the account over and over again. I wanted to read it as it is, for its beauty in literary form; for all that it was written to be and no more.

And there it is. A bit role that unfolds an image of reverence that we overlook. In Matthew 27:46, Christ cries out in agony. The crowds, we're told in verse 47, are confused. Yet one man runs to soak a sponge in sour wine.

Its a funny image, if you think about it. Here is this unidentified man who we are to assume is a part of this ground who does not understand what Jesus just said. Yet, seeing this man hanging on a cross, crying out in pain, he is moved to provide comfort. He finds a sponge, who knows where, and dips it in sour wine.

Sour wine, as I learned from Google, is really vinegar. Its likely that what this man was offering to Jesus was the same as what the guards had earlier offered. This vinegar was a painkiller of sorts, a way to lessen the pain.

So this man, who doesn't know Jesus, sees his pain and runs to provide something for it. He knows he can't save him, but he wants to offer something.

This man is left standing there with a vinegar soaked sponge, as Jesus dies.

That's all we have of this man. We know nothing of what he does after, nothing of his encounter with Christ's death, only that he aimed to comfort Christ in his last moments. He came to offer something Christ did not need, something that he likely knew was a small consolation in terms of the great agony of the Cross, yet he was moved to try anyways.

That's me. That's me most days to be honest. I see the work Christ has done and want to cut him a deal. I want to pitch in and do my part to make it ever so easier for him. I'm standing at the Cross with a Mary Poppins bag, asking Jesus what might make his day a little easier.

And to be honest, Christ would be the same with me or without me. He would carry the same weight, feel the same agonizing pain of true death, and he would rise and conquer it all in the same way.

Yet, there is something unexplainably beautiful about that man on the Cross that I seem to identify with. Its foolishness, sure, but its compassion. The others in the ground were content to wait and see. They beckon him to step away from the Cross and observe. Yet this one man betrays his friends and seeks out comfort for a stranger.

So when I sit at the foot of the Cross with my purse full of contraptions, I may never be able to help God out, but I will be demonstrating compassion and love.

Love Letters to Grassy Knolls and Theology Programmes

I have nothing profound or spiritual to say today.
Today, all I am thinking is about education, and how earnestly I seek it.
I like Moody. I appreciate how focused I am in the study of Christianity. Yet, I anxiously await my graduate studies.
I think I have made that adventure more about fantasy than reality. I yearn for the UK. To enroll in a programme, rather than take courses.
I spent my morning sipping coffee at Panera while skipping church, browsing numerous webpages of prominent British schools. I am intrigued and in love. Degree programmes (ah to be British and spell things so eloquently) are not about cramming information, it is about thinking. Dissertations take more space than courses. Programs are not 3 years, but one. The goal is not learn the most, but to think highly.

Dear England,
I have a crush on you. Perchance we can spend a few years together?
Love,
Larissa

The Undisciplined Christian Life

The list scrolls through my head of the myriad ways I could spend the next 40 minutes. There's homework, prayer, floor events. Treasury Op, phone calls  home, letters to be written. There are books on my shelf eager to be read in leisure (which I'm increasingly learning does not exist naturally), papers waiting to be written and people eager to engage with. The floor need swept, the laundry done and we won't even start talking about the state of my bathroom — let alone my own lack of hygiene at the moment.

And yet, with this sea of things to do cluttering my brain cells, I am refreshed and open-eyed. I should be exhausted. I promised myself a nap, and yet, here I sit mere inches from my bed, gazing out my window — at a brick wall. But I can't stop smiling.

A professor mentioned last night that there is a different kind of prayer than petition. She talked about being with God, enjoying his company, resting with him.

I was stunned that we needed to cover this. I thought that was the essence of the Christian life, but judging by the looks around the room, this was a foreign, and not too welcome, concept. Time with God, in the minds of my academic classmates, involved lists and study and discipline.

In Greek class today, my professor, who gives me more homework than I have in any other class, talked about how Americans work too much. Its was a beautiful irony. His point was that we thrive on our to-do lists and gain pleasure out of crossing things out. Americans are defined by their labors and find it difficult to rest.

I am an American. Behind my internet browser is a vibrant, colorful calendar of all the things scheduled in my life, with a list too long display beside it, offering each of the things I need to do: Greek homework, run to the Bank, talk to Professors. I live by my agenda. I wake up each morning, scan the calendar and embed the image on the forefront of my brain so that I may go from one task to the next without missing a beat.

Yet, somewhere along the line, I learned to savor the sweetness of God. If you ask me about my quiet times, I would tell you I never miss them; they saturate my day. If you asked me how frequently I read my Bible, I would shamefully tell you that there are days its not read. If you asked me about intercession, I would inform you that I have a list, but that I don't always lift it before God.

Those are my weaknesses, and things I need to work on, yet I am so grateful that my life is filled with a God who loves being with me. I don't have to study his Word to live in his Word. I don't have to have an agenda to enter his presence: he dwells with me always. And that is reason enough to take a few moments away from my discipline and soak up his holiness.

Our Response to God

Matthew 8:23-34:

²³ And when he got into the boat, his disciples followed him. ²⁴ And behold, there arose a great storm on the sea, so that the boat was being swamped by the waves; but he was asleep. ²⁵ And they went and woke him, saying, “Save us, Lord; we are perishing.” ²⁶ And he said to them, “Why are you afraid, O you of little faith?” Then he rose and rebuked the winds and the sea, and there was a great calm. ²⁷ And the men marveled, saying, “What sort of man is this, that even winds and sea obey him?”

Jesus Heals Two Demon-Possessed Men

²⁸ And when he came to the other side, to the country of the Gadarenes, ^F24 two demon-possessed ^F25 men met him, coming out of the tombs, so fierce that no one could pass that way. ²⁹ And behold, they cried out, “What have you to do with us, O Son of God? Have you come here to torment us before the time?” ³⁰ Now a herd of many pigs was feeding at some distance from them. ³¹ And the demons begged him, saying, “If you cast us out, send us away into the herd of pigs.” ³² And he said to them, “Go.” So they came out and went into the pigs, and behold, the whole herd rushed down the steep bank into the sea and drowned in the waters. ³³ The herdsmen fled, and going into the city they told everything, especially what had happened to the demon-possessed men. ³⁴ And behold, all the city came out to meet Jesus, and when they saw him, they begged him to leave their region.


I know. That's a lot of Scripture to throw out there, but I've been thinking about our response to divinity and these passages break my heart.


So the disciples have been following Jesus. They like the guy. He's been doing miracles all day, and a few days before, he was giving them a lengthy discourse on morals. People are flocking to Jesus. Everyone wants to talk to him, be healed by him, see him, and the disciples have been called by God to get to hang out.


And we, as American Christians who have been told our whole lives that Jesus is the Son of God, take that knowledge for granted. Sometimes I catch myself thinking that the disciples knew Jesus was the Messiah from the start. 


They didn't.       


So they're on a boat and a storm comes while Jesus is sleeping. You know the drill. Disciples: afraid. Jesus: sleeping. Disciples: wake Jesus. Jesus: rebuke wind and the disciples. Storm ends.


Sometimes, we get so familar with the story that we stopped being shocked. This is a crazy storm. They're on a little boat being tossed around. HOW ON EARTH IS JESUS ASLEEP?!? Jesus' sleep pattern is more than biological here. Its theological. Don't you think he had a lesson to be taught here? People don't sleep through heavy turbulence --- especially when waves are splashing on top of you.


So Jesus rebukes them, and that's a blog unto itself. The key, today, is their response. The disciples stand in awe, wondering what kind of man he is.


What kind of MAN he is. That's what the disciples think. They've seen miracles. They've heard amazing speeches. They've seen the world obey him. And they wonder if maybe its in the water in Nazareth. They see his finest divinity and dwell on his humanity.


How many times have you heard someone say that they would believe in God if he would work a miracle. How many times have I played Gideon asking God for some miraculous sign and then another. Its not the miracles that bring us to belief; its God's grace that opens our eyes. The disciples had enough evidence; what they needed, was some faith.


So that's sad enough by itself, but Matthew highlights our depravity by what story he chooses to follow it. So, the disciples, with Jesus, get off the boat in this place that no one goes to. There are crazy men living in tombs: it's like a scene from a B movie.


Look at what they say. "What have you to do with us, O Son of God?"


I looked. That's the first Christological statement in Matthew. Who says it? Demons.


That should humble you. The disciples, who have seen the awesome power of Christ, think about his humanity. The demons upon seeing him come out and speak to him AS GOD. 


What do we need in order to believe? What silly things are we waiting on God to do before we'll claim him as our Savior? 


It gets worse. Jesus sends the demons into a flock of pigs, who kill themselves. The herdsmen men run away. The passage doesn't clarify their emotions. We don't know if they were angry, scared or amazed. What we do know, is what they talked about.  The passage says they "told everything, ESPECIALLY what had happened to the demon-possessed men"


They lost their whole herd of pigs, yet they focus on the men. They lost their jobs, but what they dwell on is not the animals, but the men who are freed from their demons. They focus on the MIRACLE and not the damage.


Yet, the next verse tells us that those from the city found Jesus and kicked him out.


Now, if you were focusing on the healing and the miracle that happened, would you ask the man to leave? I don't think you would. You ask someone to leave when they cause problems. Like killing your herd of pigs.


The herdsmen focused on the miracle. The town on the pigs.


My big point: Even when the situation is the same, our response to Jesus is different. 


No amount of evidence changes the way we view God. We will either believe in him with all that we are, or we'll wonder what kind of man he is. Either we'll dwell on his goodness, or we'll focus on our burdens. So, how are you going to respond to God?

Saved By Grace

Today, I finally confessed my theological beliefs to my father.
I know. It doesn't sound like that big of a deal, but it was.

My family is Wesleyan. Wesleyan to the core. When I was 12, my family attended a United Methodist church, the close cousin of our blessed Wesleyans. My grandmother stopped calling. Our relatives decided that until we got our act together, there would be no family Christmas. No birthday cards. No contact.

So, imagine the effect that admitting I am a Calvinist complementarian.

I told my father today that I did not believe what the Wesleyan church taught. I was hoping to sheepishly admit this in the middle of a business e-mail about internships and summer jobs. I was hoping that he would skim over the e-mail, forgetting altogether the details about my beliefs.

Of course, my father didn't miss it. He asked me to elaborate. To point out each doctrine that I disagreed with. This should come as no surprise from the man who read to us from the doctrinal statement of the church as a part of our evening devotionals.

After confessing my differences, he retorted back with his witty questions about if I were to die having commited murder.

It wasn't that I couldn't handle the question. It wasn't even that he asked. It was the reality that my father did not understand grace.

You see, if I am saved by grace from the hands of God then it doesn't matter what I do in my sinful nature. God doesn't love me because of what I do but because of who Christ is. He sees Christ when he looks at me, not my worthless hodge podge of sin.

I am saved by grace through faith not by works. And I will hold that until I die, with or without my family's approval.

Dear God, I suppose I can settle for something you do for me.

Its funny the things we sing to God.

I love worship chapel. It is the single most refreshing thing in a crazy week, 40 minutes to meditate on God and sing out to him words more eloquent than my private groaning.

Sometimes.

Sometimes, worship chapel is the most frustrating 40 minutes of my life. I come to worship God in song and end up asking for all sorts of things and putting everything in my perspective.

Like telling God, "your grace is enough."

Really?

Really?

God created us. He's sovereign and powerful. Mighty and Righteous. Yet, we have the audacity to inform him, ever so kindly, that something he does for us is enough.

If God were cynical (and I'm grateful he is not) he would respond to our foolishness with "Oh golly gee thanks! You, who I created, who I redeemed, who I continually forgive, you are contented by something I give to you? Wow. I'm so glad you're happy. I'm so glad that as long as I seem gracious to you, you're happy. Because really, that's all I care about."

And, yes, I know my bitterness cannot be transposed onto God, but I think we're missing something. God  is enough. Not his grace. God himself. I'm not contented with merely having grace from my God. That's not enough for me. I need all of him. Call me greedy, but I need God and all that he does. I need his justice, his mercy, his sovereign good will, his love, his benevolence, his omniscience. I need a God that's more than gracious.

And I have one.

So, I'm sorry, I can't sing along with you in a happy refrain telling my mighty God that one of his attributes is enough for me. I need all of him.

And more importantly, it's not about me. It's not about what I think is enough. I think I'm wasting my time crying out to God that's he sufficient. What he needs to hear is more like, "God, I trust you even when I don't feel your grace. Even when I'm discontented with you. God, you are my everything, even when I don't act like it. Even when I don't believe, I want to."

So, here's my prayer:
God, I don't really feel like your being all that gracious right now. I don't feel like you're enough. But I know you are more than everything I need and more than I can want. I know that my human mind can't comprehend how your grace works and can't understand your logic, but I trust it. I trust that you know what you're doing. And Lord, I don't say that to build your ego. I say it so I can remind myself of what you really are so that I may feebly attempt to worship you in a way that is honoring. You are worthy of the utmost praise, and I am incapable of giving it. But all I am, I lay before you. And I ask that you teach me how to love you more, not for my sake, but for yours.

Journey

Sometimes, you just don't know what to expect.

Right now, at 2 am, I am sitting in bed reminiscing about a weekend well spent. 2 days ago, I hoped in a car with a sea of near strangers and drove to a place I had never been to attend a wedding of dear friends.

It's been an adventure.

My traveling companions included a close friend and 3 men I hardly know and vastly different. Sitting in a cafe drinking strong coffee, we talk about God, ethnicity and expectations. We're real about who we are, what we feel, what matters in life.

An hour later, we're swimming in a pool telling hilarious jokes and faking tai chi and ballet.

There is something about these people that allows me to be completely myself. I don't have to put on a charade: I can be me. Fully. It's a beautiful thing to be with people who are so real that there is no need to put on a front. I'm loving this. I only wish I felt the same way about the rest of the people in my life.

It makes me wonder where the problem is. Am I simply unwilling (or more rightly, afraid) to be myself or is it the people I'm with?

Mark made a comment that stuck with me. He said, "If you stand up for the truth, it doesn't matter what people say."

It doesn't matter if the people I'm around would love me less if I were really me. I need to stand up for the truth. I need to love God and how he has made me. I need to be fully me without this mask that makes me out to be a good Chrisitan. I need to recognize my need to be loved, my wrong placement of self-worth and my pride that stop me from fully embracing who God has made me.

I am a child of God. I am wonderfully and beauitfully made. So why am I pretending to be something other than who I am?

Chubby Writers and Fake Friends.

Sometimes I wonder if I could succeed as a writer. I'm certain, if I ever was a writer, I would sleep until noon, be jittery from excess caffeine, and I would be fat.

I judge all of this from the 6 shots of espresso I poured into my system today, the fact its an hour past my bedtime and I am eating a delicious cinnamon roll while feeling the need to play the creative card, like every other twenty-something with a blog.

To my real point: I think people prefer to spend their time with people who care for them just a touch more than they care for the other people.

Today I studied with a friend whom I care for dearly. We have a good friendship; one where I am in awe with him and view him more highly than I probably should. I respect him, in the truest sense.

I was wondering today why we were such good friends. After a full day spent together, I wondered why  he chose me as a companion. There were many people he could have spent time with, yet he ended up laughing over flashcards next to me.

Then it donned on me: he enjoyed being with me because I was enamored with me. Who doesn't want to spend time with someone who treats them like a genius? Who compliments you frequently, who values you infinitely?

Folding laundry while chatting on Facebook, another dear friend of mine began chatting with me. Ten minutes in, I realized just why I adored him so much: he cares for me far more than I do for him.

And there we have it: the foolish love of self cloaked in seeming friendship.