This Will Be...

In a weird number of ways God's pushing me to a bold act of faith.
As I've chronicled here over the past few weeks God's been talking to me through scripture, visual art, literature, musics, and experience.
The fundamental assertion--My life of quiet courage is too little for the God of the universe.
The action step--I have no idea.
Tonight I'm going to take a guitar and stand in front of lots of people and ask them to sing that God is more than enough for me.
The problem is I believe in that academically, but not all the way.
Frankly the way that I spend my time and money does indeed indicate that I believe in Jesus Christ and want to see his hope spread. This isn't a "damn I'm a hypocrite" kind of post. I love Jesus, have for some time, and have been blessed inwardly and outwardly in this relationship. I'm not coming to my senses.
That said, almost everyone I look to as a hero in the faith was killed prematurely because of their faith.
If Bonhoffer is right, that the call of Christ is to "come and die with me" I don't have that kind of faith.
I don't know where this will take me, and I'm increasingly sure it might be a bit uncomfortable, but a simple application is that everywhere I am now, including my work, I'm going to get more serious about lifting up the saving message of Jesus.

A Penny for the Old Guy

I've got friends who are investing themselves beautifully, and in beautiful things.
I've got other friends who press forward through monotony, say "boy I'm stuffed" and move forward hollowly through winter in Ohio.
I heard a sermon once drawing a comparison between the full bodied Christian life and surfing. Those living with passion were the white water people, and they were fundamentally different than "Legions of the unjazzed" who splash and play in the low, safe water and lack the courage and passion to commit their life to the adventure and danger of deep water.
I'm afraid of water at night.
I'm changing.
My dad was an engineer, my mentors have always been bullet-point guys. Propositional truth was what counted.
But I'm not so sure that's right. Knowing about something does not fuel transformation of life like truly knowing something. Conocer kicks the crap out of saber any day of the week. Passionate, full bodied, white water kind of lives resonate, and give hope, and give life.
It's trickier than that in real life, do we sound our Barbaric yawp, pin our ears back, and live loud lives only to ride back (but not the 600). To loudly say nothing? Proposition matters.
I feel like I'm standing too close to a Seurat and the colors haven't taken shape yet. But this is an exciting time.

Mr. Kurtz he dead

I'm reading a book right now called "Beasts of No Nation."
It's about child soldiers in an unnamed African nation. It is heartwrenching.
The story follows a little boy who is dragged from safety, beaten near death, and becomes a monster. Maybe he gets better. I'm in the middle.
What is so heart wrenching is that he is a little boy.
We see Darfur on the news and we see monsters, we see genocide, command and control and industry twisted towards pain.
The story of Agu is different. He is afraid and scared and likes it where "it is warm, and I am feeling safe, and it is not loud from the screams of people as we are killing them."
One of his victims yells, "You are of the devil" and he cries and says to himself over and over, "No, I am a good boy...I am a good boy...I am a good boy."
I don't know if he's redeemed at the end. I don't know if he ends a monster.
I know that he lives a life where daydreaming of the missionary Bible with the shiny golden letters and sunshine and school and friends can happen within thirty seconds of killing somone by jumping on their chest until they stop yelling.
This book is heartwrenching. He is a modern day Screwtape channeled through a little boy; a child stumbling violently through an existential wasteland of his (and our) making.
He kills people with knives.
I don't know what to do with this. I know that I love the rule of law, and I love that for me being moral is pretty much expected. I love that my life involves choosing the moral right or wrong in relative safety and peace.
I need to process more, but I know two things:
I am deeply blessed to live where I live when I live.
Some part of my life needs to be dedicated to helping knock this stuff off.
Much more to come.
Help me O God to become who I am.

Mr. Gray Tiger

It's Tuesday January 9th, my Birthday ended 1 hour and 15 minutes ago.
I just got done praying.
For a cat.
Mr. Gray Tiger
I watched the Buckeye's game at a buddies house.
Come home.
Have an odd feeling.
Things have been moved.
A very small burglar with little forethought or need for money has been here, and has played with our candles.
Check the house and all is well.
Meow.
What?
Meow. (beat) Meow.
There's a cat.
Under my bed.
But I don't own a cat.
Yet I have one.
We play. I don't want to scare him or hurt him.
We play cat games as he decides if I'm cool.
We play cat games with me on my stomach and him under the bed. Cat patty cake. Meow staring contests.
I give him milk because children's books teach us that cat's like this.
I come up with a name for him (Mr. Gray Tiger but mostly I just call him Kitty Cat).
I'm not very cool.
I pick him up and pet him.
I begin to carry him to the door.
He's obviously someones cat, he's playful and declawed and likes milk.
But maybe that parts not evidence.
I carry him some more.
He freaks. Makes weird Pet Cemetery noises and twists and wiggles and claws as I pet him and then just hold on as loose (not to squish) and tight (not to lose him to run around) as I can.
I let him out the door.
Hides beneath my car.
Bolts out the garage door.
free
That was weird.