58th Confession

So I'm prayerfully considering writing a few blogs about Christian personality types, based off of the 12 tribes of Israel, the 7 redemptive giftings, the 5 calls, and a few other things. Shout if you're interested.

So it's a couple weeks after the surgery, and I'm itching to get back out to it. I'm also itching to go back to Cagayan. To that end, I've also been thinking about adding advertisements to the blog - not that I like them, not that I want them, but that any profits that come in from them get me back there. Another little change that might not be a change, but any income is welcome these days...even if it means selling out a little.

Let's see - what else can I write about? I'm considering a rebuttal against atheism again, a few recipies, another list of new music that is hitting home right about now, as well as the joys of sharing old television shows with my son. Might even share a few of my favorite software tools and Google hacks...but that's beside the point.

Anyways - time to wrap this one up again. Probably a more fulfilling blog next time.

57th Confession

I'm an older brother.

This comes as no surprise to anyone who knows my family, but there's a deeper truth to this. Yes, I have a younger sibling (holla, Lauren), but I've also been saved since a very young age. I grew up saved by grace since about six, and I really don't know any other way to live.

This brings me to a parable that Jesus told. It had two brothers in it, as well - an older and a younger. The younger asks his father for his inheritance (basically writing the father off as dead), goes out and blows it, and then finds himself in a mess. He decides - after he comes to himself - to go back home, beg forgiveness, and sell himself back to his father. And while he was a long way off, his father sees him and has compassion, runs and falls on his neck and kisses him. The son begins his well rehearsed speech about being no longer worthy to be called his son. The father interrupts him and begins a feast, with his younger son as the guest of honor.

And that's where a lot of church sermons start. I have heard this parable taught as a salvation message I don't know how many times. "Come back, thou corrupted backslider, for thy God shall have mercy on thee." Or, "Come to the Kingdom of God, you lost and prodigal." And there's nothing wrong with this kind of message - I believe it's necessary, sometimes, to call out the ones who are on the verge of either coming home or sliding away.

But what I hate is that it's only half of a story. All the sermons that I've heard focus on the younger brother. But I'm not a younger brother...am I? I'm an older brother. I'm an older brother. I'm the one who hasn't slid away. I've stayed and worked, I've been faithful, even when it's been crazy. I'm the one who fights being burnt out, even when it'd be easier to take my younger brother's route.

The promise of the father is wonderfulness itself - all he has is mine. Of course, the father's explanation shows his heart of love and forgiveness. Dead son, come back to life. Omnia vincit amor. There is no condemnation in the father toward his older son or his younger.

But there's that lingering sensation of burning in myself. Isn't there more to life than this kind of existence? Work for the father, with promises of future reward?

Why is it so hard to ask Father for something for myself?

And honestly, at that point, it feels like I become the younger brother, having written off my father's generosity and love, condemning him for his laisesz faire toward me. I don't recall there being any "joy" in my salvation; it just was. It was a choice for me - a choice to follow Him as best as I could, in all the ways that I could, loving Him the best I could, with all my heart, mind, will, emotions...but there was no "joy" about my choice.

I don't understand the phrase "joy of my salvation." I grew up saved. Where is the joy? Rejoicing, I understand. Continuously giving thanks, I get that. But I don't understand the joy coming from making a choice away from death as intimately as those who have.

Maybe I'm over-analyzing this, but on the other hand, maybe there's a different kind of joy for older brothers like me. Maybe I'm searching for something that isn't the same for me that it is for others. It seems to be the same as searching for my people.

Thank you, Father, for loving the older brothers, too.

56th Confession

I don't make a big deal out of things. I try to keep as low key as possible. I never liked drama in high school, and I still don't like it now.

So when I went in for minor surgery, that's how I viewed it - minor.

Now, I ache in my guts. And I can't bend right. And I'm up late because I can't get comfortable. All minor things - but I'll not say much to anyone about it, mainly because that's how I am.

Sometimes, I wish I were a little more dramatic. Maybe I'd get more attention that way. But personally? Drama just isn't my thing.

Sorry for the brevity - next post will be longer when I feel more like writing.

55th Confession

It's never easy to consider the end of a thing. No matter how long one plans, no matter what safeguards one enacts, everything ends. Television series, books, lives, and (as science so comfortingly puts it) the universe are all being led along the path of slow decay, until their bitter ends. And you'd think that we, as humans, would understand that. After all, it's been going on for lifetimes now.

But it doesn't make it any easier. Especially when the pain of loss is personal.

For a while now, my grandmother has been in poor health. Her lungs, her blood, and her mind have all been tainted by various effects of the world of sickness. At 80-something - or is she in her 90's? - she's led a full, rewarding life. She's seen (or received word of) all her grandchildren marrying, even held some great-grandchildren. She's been a strong woman of faith, up until the time that her mind began to betray her.

And now, her living will is taking effect. As her body wears down for the final time, she's requested to die in peace.

And I can't find it in my heart to blame her.

In younger days, I was very conservative about such matters. "Life is life, and one should always fight for it," I thought. I believed that life was supposed to be struggled through until the very last minute. I wanted so very much to believe in life - at any cost.

And now, as I grow older, I find that my ideals are eroded constantly. There are so very few things that are black and white, and so many colors that don't fit into either category. Is it age and maturity tempering the fiery idealism of youth? Has it always been this way?

Why did no one ever tell me that "right" and "wrong" overlap so much?

Moses once asked the Lord to teach us to count our days. I know now, in part, that it's not just about the number of days there are between inception and death. I understand that it's the moments that enrich a life that we're supposed to pay attention and count. Remembering the first kiss shared between you and your spouse. The first time you saw your child. The accomplishments you may have had throughout your life. The agonizing heartbreaks that honed your purpose, focused you into what God made for you in this lifetime.

I suppose that, without times like these, purpose and destiny cannot be created. It's through the revealing of character that a purpose is shown, and character is truly revealed in times of tragedy. David's time at Ziklag, for example, shows the depth of his devotion to his God and his people.  Or that time that the child could not come to him, but David will eventually go to him. There are so many things that make a person's purpose - and not everyone can handle it.

The saddest thing to see is when a person falters against the purpose for which they were created. Samson, Amy Winehouse, Janis Joplin, Charlie Chaplin...History is littered with gifted people, good people, whose lives have been twisted, shaken, and corrupted by their inability to harness their character for something more than the "now." It takes a strong person to plan for the future - including the worst parts of it.

My grandmother is a strong person. And I am proud of her.

54th Confession

First off - let me give a shout out to my blog header designer, Sahina-Waya. You can find a lot of her work here, and I'm certain that were you to purchase some of her work, she'd not be too averse to it.

Last post, a couple questions were asked on the comments board, specifically geared to the defense of the local gathering of believers. I feel that this is a great little topic, so I'm going to dive right into it.

I believe strongly in the local gathering of believers for fellowship, teaching, correction, and worship. However, I've noticed a disturbing trend recently: a lot of "organized" religious gatherings have become focused on self-sustenance. That is, instead of being focused on the world, they've become focused on themselves. Instead of focusing on Jesus, they become focused on tenets. Or worse, they become focused on tenants.

It is a trustworthy statement: any group whose focus becomes the continued survival of the group is already dead. Any time any one is not willing to allow something to die in order to give place to something new, watch out.

But despite all this, is it wrong to take a little time to regroup, away from others? I don't have a problem with it, as long as it's only that: time to regroup refocus, and then get back into it.

For an example, let me reference the sad case of Jacopo da Pontormo, a Renaissance artist that very few people can reference. His last commissions were the frescoes in the chapel at San Lorenzo, in Florence. Getting on in years, and hampered by a fear of people stealing his ideas, Jacopo ordered the chapel sealed off, walled in, and no one allowed to look at his creation. Sadly, he died before finishing his frescoes (eleven years in the making)...and none of them survived. Why? One of his close friends, Giorgio Vasari, wrote in his journals about how scene bled into scene, characters were juxtaposed, and there was an overall lack of proportion. Quoting Vasari, “I think I would go mad and become entangled in this painting," if he continued to look at it. Obsessed with detail, da Pontormo lost the sense of the overall composition.

Isolation spawns creativity, true; however, too much time alone fosters "an obsession with detail combined with an inability to see the larger picture, a kind of extravagant ugliness that no longer communicates." (Borrowed from Robert Greene's fascinating study into the 48 laws of power)

Growth, in any living being, is dependent on two distinct and separate times: a season of self, and a season of environment. During the season of self, the organism focuses inward: a tree during winter, or a child in a home environment. This season is for the inner strengthening - roots grow deeper, wounds are healed, and armor is developed. During the season of environment, the organism focuses outward: a tree in summer, or a child in a public environment. This is the season of outreach, of experimentation, of flourishing. If one cannot thrive in the environment where there is external pressure and stress on what you believe, how is your faith relevant?

Therein lies the challenge unique to the believer, mirrored in all kinds of ways. Be salt - but not overwhelming, light - but not blinding, leavening - but not over-inflated, self-aware - but not self-absorbed, God-aware - but not God-absorbed.

53rd Confession

When we were younger, my wife called the number 53 "the evil gizzard number". I now have cause to believe that; it's taken me entirely too long to get around to this post.

I mean, four months?  Really? What have I done between them?

Honestly? A lot of soul-searching. A lot of working. A lot of trying to figure things out, and failing miserably.

The first thing I tried to figure out is whether I'm really really saved, or if I'm just playing around. I mean, I believe in Jesus with all my heart, but I have trouble with the way organized religion makes everything so cut and dried. Life is messy - why should church be any different? My best friends are the ones who believe and don't force their beliefs on anyone. Unfortunately, what they believe isn't necessarily what I believe. I have so many troubles with where I believe I'm called, including a lack of evidence of calling...

Could this be what is a crisis of faith? Or just of confidence? Or is it a test, to make sure I don't move on feelings alone?

I've always been what one would call a rational mystic - where there's a logical, natural explanation, leave the demons out of it. If there's something supernatural, let it be supernatural. But for the love of most things holy, don't go seeing demons under every bush and in every situation: they just aren't there, most of the time. But is there a need to be more rational? Or more mystic? Where does the balance lie?

I think these, and a few other things, will be looked at on a more regular basis. As ever, comments, flames, suggestions for posts, and everything else is welcome.

52nd Confession

I'm a sucker for well-written television programs.

There are very few of those around these days, sadly. With the glut of "reality" programming these days, the demand for real writers is greatly diminished. And with the ability of a network to put out 500 crappy unscripted programs to any one quality program, it's easy as anything to see why networks choose the easy route.

And what "reality" do most of these programs come from anyway? Most places I know of don't have a bunch of young folk acting as stupidly as some shows have 'em. For example, most of the girls I dated in my short span of time never would make me dress up in a sumo suit and wrestle with a professional, just to go out with 'em. I've also never seen a community of people who were so proud of their excesses, so arrogant about their poor life choices, or so particular about their vices as one sees during "unscripted" television.

It's also sad how quickly good premises go bad. Heroes, No Ordinary Family, Due South, The Cape...pretty much anything science-fiction or comic book related - they all start out so brilliantly, and then fall so flat as to be unrecognizable. There have been a very few that have kept on with their original premise and gotten better - Eureka, for one, and supposedly the entire Stargate series as well.

Sometimes, I think we should go with the British programming system: all of their serieses start out with about eight episodes, and if they are popular enough, they get more. If not, it was a nice little story arc, time to move on.

Or maybe we could do it through social media. Enough "likes" or "diggs" or tweets or hashtags, and a new show makes it through. Or maybe we could make it more interactive than that: a new show, scripted by the majority of Americans. A premise is laid out, the characters have fairly broad ranges, the situation is fairly clearly defined, and at the end of an episode, a cliffhanger ending. What happens next? That's up to the viewing audience to decide!