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!

51st Confession

I wish I had a better lawn.

I have absolutely no talent for botany. None whatsoever. Plants take one look at me and lose the will to live. There are so many dead spots on my lawn, it looks more like the surface of the moon than it does anything American.

I used to think it would be a blessing to have mature shade trees. Unfortunately, mature shade trees make for lots and lots of leaves. In addition, there are lots of sticks: dead limbs, limbs that need to be removed - all this adds up to wood chips and time and money. Many things I have in this life, but extra time is not one of them.

Would that I had the extra resources to actually turf the lawn this year, as I've so often remarked would resolve all the issues. It'd always look good, the trees could still get water. And yet, I'd never have to mow again, and any spots on the lawn would be cleaned up with spot remover or a snow shovel. A very special, use-specific snow shovel.

Currently, I reseeded and hayed the lawn. I did it right before the heavy rains came. I added fertilizer, I tore up the dirt to lay the seed down...and nothing has sprouted. Nothing at all. Between birds and the dog, nothing.

The next thing to do is to admit defeat, call in a professional, and just redo the whole thing. I'm halfway there, but I just think that if I do the right things, it'll all come out right. Of course, that hasn't worked out for the past two years...

50th Confession

Well, here it is: the first milestone blogmark.  I had so much I wanted to write here: a piece about KBO, a bit about God and faith, a little maybe about the great mystery of synchronicity that I've noticed weaving about my life...

But I'm stuck. Again.

The words fail me. They don't come out. The thoughts and inspirations are there, and I don't believe in writer's block.

It's just that my words feel clumsy. Oafish. As though my thoughts are being interpreted into German, sent through Morse code to a Cocker Spaniel, and barked out to a chipmunk.

English is such a gracious, noble language. The way that a pun twists a word's dipthong until the listener feels the pain of a wedgie. The masterful laments of Prufrock and Josh Ritter. The power of the phrase "You Shall Not Pass," spoken in stentorian tones by an actor of the highest caliber.

But yet, it feels like this masterful tool, this glorious instrument on which I play, has become a tintinnabulation,  a cacophony of guttural lowing from a hungry herd of livestock complaining about their lot in life.

I've been reading more and more literature in the past few weeks. A lot more TS Eliot, listening to Josh Ritter a little more, crying inside a little more...I think it's a sign of another inward spiral.

Maybe the solution is in the problem: I've gotta rock myself a little bit harder. I've got to eat a peach. Let myself live a little. KBO.

I'm trying to live by a few principles: Love God. Obey the rules of the land. Honor my parents. Enjoy life.

In that order.

But some days, I'm just not...

I'm just not me anymore. I'm just a husk of Ryan's soul, biding my time, waiting to come to life again, like the storms down in Mexico. Spiritually, I'm just getting by, because I can't work in the confines of the box. My God is so much bigger than the box that many see Him as, and I don't want to be bound by the rules that others claim He wrote. The rules that leech life, stifle creativity, maintain the status quo - I can't see my God having anything to do with them, let alone writing them.

Is there not a prophet in Israel? Is there not a voice to cry out and change my future? Do they have to come from all over the place in order to revitalize a local body? If the body is going that way, won't there be someone local to be that way?

And after releasing all this, I hear a voice. It's only three words, spoken by my best friend. I can hear the warmth in his voice as he says it, although he's a thousand miles and five states away. But I can feel the power of them, resonating inside me, gripping the wildly vibrating tuning fork that has been my soul and giving it rest.

KBO, folks, because sooner or later, things will turn out right. Walk in tune with the beat that God hears, and soon you might see the dance steps you take, and learn to enjoy it as well.

Good night, folks.  Fifty-one will be better.

49th Confession

A long, long time ago, I promised to answer every comment that was listed on this blog, either in a post, or in the comments.  I didn't do that for the February blogs; I figured it needed to be done eventually, but I didn't have the strength.  Sitting up late when I should be abed, I suppose now is as good a time as any to address this.

In no particular order:

Emma - Not only do you win for the Most Dedicated Responder Award for your work on typing on a mobile, you also win the Most Likely to be Blog Stalked, when you write down your experiences. Let me know when this happens, and where.  While I do not envy anyone who shares our experiences, a burden shared is halved.  Some time, I'll have to blog about darling Livvy ("Mummy...Where's that MAN?")...Maybe I'll leave that one for you, though ;)  By the way? A doorway into the mind works both ways; ask Madame de Pompadour.

ConTom - Every post I write is theraputic in some way. Thank you for reading my soul.

grace/Grace - You were the first responder to this crisis, all these years ago. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Thank you for stopping in the bracing cold air, just for that moment. While I always do the best I know how, I never felt it was ever enough.

Interesting sidebar at this juncture: this evening, I dined with a father whose teenage son ascended about six weeks ago. Six weeks is about the time when the bottom drops out of everything: the prayer support seems to stop, you raise your head up out of your grieving pool for the first time to notice that the world has passed you by, and you get the paranoid sense that people are thinking to themselves, "It's been over a month; they should really move on by now." No one wants to say your child's name to you, lest they bring up something uncomfortable and not know how to respond; we wanted to talk of nothing else, lest she be forgotten.

So tonight, sitting across Chipotle meals, we talked about his son. No teenage boy does everything right, especially one in today's liberal society. But tonight, I saw the fruits of a great father finally be revealed: that when his son was no more, other parents talked about his excellent behavior. Good parenting, like wisdom, is revealed by her children - especially in the absence of the parent.

Na - Honesty you may have in abundance on this place. Happiness, like heated leather seats, will cost you extra ;)

Tina - I am deeply honored to be among the best fathers that you know. In this world, we receive an ungodly number of teachers but only a handful of fathers: to know a good father is rare enough, and to be called among the best is a title that I strive to achieve daily, now. Thank you for walking with us on this path, in such a time as this.

Fremere - We all walk the paths that we create from our choices; while I regret some choices from long ago, I appreciate your companionship on the road right now.

Happy - Aye. 'Tis. <3

Mercy for Today - Sometimes, I walk by that picture frame, and I stop and talk with her for a minute or two. Also for you, a fable: A gecko and an elephant were walking together along a path through a jungle in the cool of the day.  The gecko, being quite small but enjoying the conversation with his friend, asked to ride on the elephant's shoulder; the elephant, being a quite kindly animal, obliged. Soon, they reached a giant chasm. Across this chasm, an exceedingly clever man had fashioned a bridge from several hundred thousand vines; don't ask about where the vines are from or how he fashioned the bridge - it's immaterial, and quite rude to interrupt the story like that. Do it again, young man, and I'll turn this van right around and not give you any pudding.

Where was I?

Oh, yes: the bridge. Across the bridge the elephant walked, with the gecko clinging for dear life to his friend's shoulder. The winds howled around them, the bridge swayed precariously from side to side, and the river roared below them. Creaking, popping, and snapping sounds were also in the audio mix, mostly from under the elephant's feet. This is a nice fable, so they both made it across in relative safety. After reaching the other side, the gecko whispered into the elephant's ear, "We sure shook that bridge, didn't we?"

Jessa B - Our footfalls echo in the memory/Down the passage which we did not take/Towards the door we never opened/Into the rose-garden. My words echo/Thus, in your mind. But to what purpose/Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves/I do not know. Thank you for listening to my echo; enjoy TED =)

Heather H - When we all get there, I'll be glad to make Josh's acquaintance. Until then, may our memories keep them close to us, even as they enjoy their new home. 

Aiight - that's all for now.  Next post is number 50 - not sure what to do with THAT.  Suggestions?

48th Confession

Well, here we are in March now, and I'll get back to answering everyone who wrote in on the last few posts, probably on the next post. But that's too much heaviness, for right now. We'll just leave that for right now and talk about interpretations.

Hermaneutics is one of those things that either scares people off or makes them look at you funny if you say that you're interested in it.  I mean, it's not exactly rocket science, but if it were easy, everyone would be doing it.

But that's the thing: everybody DOES do it. Everything that you can sense, feel, consider - all of it - are interpretations of the world around you. It's all signals, constantly being decoded by your brain as it tries to make sense of the world around you.

For example: how do you know when a person is upset? Their eyes narrow, their voice changes, their body tenses up....all these things are able to be interpreted in a matter of seconds to interpret a person's mood. How much more is there to interpret in the world?

Which leads into the big question: what is a correct interpretation? Or are all interpretations equally valid?

It's almost like asking, "What is truth?" Abstract nouns have a funny way of being ephemeral at best, and poorly defined at worst. Love, truth, beauty, goodness- all are up for interpretation, and none have been able to be adequately defined or explained by science. There is no magic formula for being beautiful; no matter how much one moisturizes, makes friends, and is a general "good" person - which we shouldn't use, because "good" isn't quantifiable - there  is always, ALWAYS, going to be someone that can't stand them.

I figure, the same holds true for interpretations: for every thirty or so people who hold to a particular interpretation of something, there's gonna be at least fifteen - a very vocal fifteen - who will disagree. Loudly. Sometimes with rocks.

But that's not the issue: the issue is, can something be utterly true? I surely and truly hope that only one equals one, and evermore ought to be so. But we need more than hope to prove absolute truth. So let's look at a couple of things.

Atheists and scientists employ empiricism and logic. But it's theoretically provable that two equals one, which proves that logic merely enables one to be wrong with authority. And we're expanding our range of senses at an alarming rate, so empiricism cannot be the be-all, end-all either. Plus, we're dealing with something that is above senses: you can see a woman be sawed in half, but it doesn't mean she has been, for example.

So what CAN we rely upon? Science can be fooled, humans can be fooled, anything can be faked...So perhaps the answer is, truth cannot be absolutely proved or disproved.

But let me show you a different approach.

Truth must come from outside ourselves; if it comes from within, it is nothing more than delusion. However, truth needs to be verified by several outside sources; if it's too narrow of a field, that limits what you can accept as true. It needs to come from several conflicting people, and if it's scientifically provable, all the better.

But even that cannot help with the big question; is there a God? I've seen Him proven through the existence of moral code, sentience, high-level communication, the genesis of the universe, a trifecta proposition, and seemingly no-loss bets...and I've seen the secular humanist atheists attack each and every of these arguments and rationally (logically?) disprove each of them.

So is there a God? I cannot prove Him for certain; if I could, I wouldn't need Him. If I could understand Him, I'd be like Him; I can only catch glimpses of his thumbprints here and there. I see enough circumstantial evidence to make my faith a part of me, even on my worst days. And, as CS Lewis once put it, "I believe in Christianity as I believe that the sun has risen: not only because I see it, but because by it I see everything else."