The debate.
Man is basically good.
vs.
Man is basically evil.
It's so simple. Just watch a toddler. They KNOW what "no" means. Everyone has shown them and told them the proper way to behave. But they still choose to disobey. They still choose to lick the shoe, to knock over the trash can, to hit their little brother.
No one has to teach a toddler how to be bad. We have to teach them how to be good.
Therein lies the rub. We are not basically good. But we KNOW goodness.
I wonder if that provokes in all the image it provokes in me. Somehow, though we are evil, we instinctively know goodness....and choose to disregard it.
(not to blatantly rip off a man named Clive, but...)
Sounds like we have something of our Creator in us. And we ignore it. And are in need of saving...
.....good thing He took care of that.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Self-esteem?
(with slight revisions, originally posted to myspace 1/17/07)
self-esteem.
1.to regard highly or favorably; regard with respect or admiration:
~
So....what's the deal with "self-esteem"? Frankly, I'm getting tired of hearing that phrase. I'm sure, as this is a personal belief, most of you will disagree with this....but I don't esteem myself. I don't admire myself that much, or regard myself very highly. As a human being, (though I usually steer clear of this terminology) I kind of suck.
I think we need to drop the self-esteem and pick up the God-esteem again. You see all the time where people get depressed, or hurt themselves, or their social life goes to the dogs, "because of low self-esteem." I think it's because we don't realize how precious we are. You say, well, that's the same thing!
Not quite. Each and every one of our bodies, minds, and souls was made amazingly by God. We possess them (ourselves, in effect) because he loves us. Why would you disrespect something like that? I don't think we need to be telling our children "You raise that self-esteem. You're beautiful, you're talented, and don't you forget it. you, you, you, you."
Here's my alternative.
"Remember that your body is God's temple. He loves you, and chose you to be His child. Isn't that amazing? God made you a beautiful creation, He gave you unique gifts. He made you special to glorify Him in everything that you do. Remember to respect that- for that's an awesome responsibility."
God-esteem.
self-esteem.
1.to regard highly or favorably; regard with respect or admiration:
~
So....what's the deal with "self-esteem"? Frankly, I'm getting tired of hearing that phrase. I'm sure, as this is a personal belief, most of you will disagree with this....but I don't esteem myself. I don't admire myself that much, or regard myself very highly. As a human being, (though I usually steer clear of this terminology) I kind of suck.
I think we need to drop the self-esteem and pick up the God-esteem again. You see all the time where people get depressed, or hurt themselves, or their social life goes to the dogs, "because of low self-esteem." I think it's because we don't realize how precious we are. You say, well, that's the same thing!
Not quite. Each and every one of our bodies, minds, and souls was made amazingly by God. We possess them (ourselves, in effect) because he loves us. Why would you disrespect something like that? I don't think we need to be telling our children "You raise that self-esteem. You're beautiful, you're talented, and don't you forget it. you, you, you, you."
Here's my alternative.
"Remember that your body is God's temple. He loves you, and chose you to be His child. Isn't that amazing? God made you a beautiful creation, He gave you unique gifts. He made you special to glorify Him in everything that you do. Remember to respect that- for that's an awesome responsibility."
God-esteem.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
when i cried
I have been a part of Reflections for the better part of my seven years living in Richmond, and I have never truly cried in drama. But there have been tears. Once was during “The Secret Garden” term (’04 edition), during one of our all-day workshops which occurred, annually, close to show-time. We, an intimate group of twenty or so, sat in the dark as Aunt Jean had us listen to “You Raise Me Up” - sung by Josh Groban. First she said, “Listen to this as a song you would sing to each other.” Then we listened to it again, prefaced by: “Now, this is us, singing to God.” By the time the lights were back on, I think tears had welled in nearly every eye. It remains one of my favourite drama memories.
Also occurring within “The Secret Garden” bubble of time, I actually became teary-eyed during one or two of the performances, during the finale “You Can Do It.” True, my character would most certainly have been tearing up, but it’s never been easy for me to cry on command unless my heart is in it. And yes, though those songs are, I suppose, corny… and some can get…old…that song is so powerful and emotional in my memory. It is as applicable to students as it is to Colin and Archie.
“Fiddler on the Roof” was an emotionally charged camp in a lot of ways- even besides the heart-wrenching emotion that went into the show itself. The culmination of it for me, as I remember it very precisely, was just before the final curtain call, tearing up slightly and kissing my dear Tzeitel. Some always cry during and right after curtain call- but that’s about as close as I ever got.
Until this year. Until we finally did the story of care-free childhood, with the most grown-up sentiments being homesickness, affection, and loyalty. Ironic, isn’t it?
This camp, though bringing all the pleasures of being involved in my beloved “Peter Pan” was not without its stressful moments. I was suspended between the children and the leaders- more than once asked, “Are you a camper?” In fact, I was the oldest camper. Something I (thankfully) only realized after the production. A first, for me. And though I struggled in balancing Pan with my looming directorial commitment, The Glass Menagerie, it was a marvelous and fun experience.
Unbelievably enough, the cast performed perhaps closest to perfection as we ever have. Nearly all of our glitches during shows came from music cues or lighting which was a bit off. Nobody forgot crucial cues or dances (although Peter never could quite get the “I Gotta Crow” lyrics perfect. *wink*) - even though we all agreed that certain ensemble numbers could have used an extra week of rehearsing! After thirty-six hours of personal distraction and stress (mostly due to then-unresolved situations which affected me, but were out of my hands)… come show-time, I was pretty perfectly at peace.
The shows felt very relaxed, because we had our parts down so well. Just before the last show I must have had a wonderful kick of something- for I was literally bouncing and dancing with my pre-set children just before the musicians started up (Wendy laughed at me). Everyone had marvelous energy during that final performance, and lights and music went oh, so smooth. As we lined up in the green room for bows, I glanced once at my Wendy and tears almost came. I was so proud of her. She had come so naturally into this part, she who had not yet even had a speaking role in previous plays. She simply beamed with joy and post-show excitement; I felt the way she looked. I think instead of crying I ran up, hugged, and kissed her. Then the moment passed. And I thought, there’s my “Peter Pan” emotion, come and gone.
And then the oddest thing happened. I glowed and bounced during curtain call, applause, and post-show hugs. I bear-hugged every cast mate I could get my hands on. Then I was in the back, having had more laid back conversations with a few different audience members, and I saw Rachel. I imprisoned her presently in my hug, and thought (and, I think, told her something of) how I never expected her to meet my Pan standard. And she had met it. And, oh, I’ve watched her grow and mature, and face disappointment after disappointment when it comes to plays- and all in good season. I remember jumping up and down when I read on my email that she had been cast as Anne Shirley. I remembered her captivating Pan audition that totally took me by surprise. I thought of how, by the last show especially, her movements, face and tone were so like a little boy. And I was so relieved we had pulled it off, that I cried. I hugged her, and I laughed, and I inexplicably cried, (all at the same time) burying my face in her shoulder. And I looked up, and she was crying and laughing with me. And we both laughed some more, because we never cry after shows.
I suppose it was fitting, although humorous for me, still, in retrospect. My happiness was overflowing. My heart was as full as it could have been with pleasure and pride in seeing the growth and accomplishments of the people I love most in the world. I suppose that was it. I just didn’t have room for anything else- so I had to let something out.
(Well, the run on the lawn we had afterward helped with that, too.)
Also occurring within “The Secret Garden” bubble of time, I actually became teary-eyed during one or two of the performances, during the finale “You Can Do It.” True, my character would most certainly have been tearing up, but it’s never been easy for me to cry on command unless my heart is in it. And yes, though those songs are, I suppose, corny… and some can get…old…that song is so powerful and emotional in my memory. It is as applicable to students as it is to Colin and Archie.
“Fiddler on the Roof” was an emotionally charged camp in a lot of ways- even besides the heart-wrenching emotion that went into the show itself. The culmination of it for me, as I remember it very precisely, was just before the final curtain call, tearing up slightly and kissing my dear Tzeitel. Some always cry during and right after curtain call- but that’s about as close as I ever got.
Until this year. Until we finally did the story of care-free childhood, with the most grown-up sentiments being homesickness, affection, and loyalty. Ironic, isn’t it?
This camp, though bringing all the pleasures of being involved in my beloved “Peter Pan” was not without its stressful moments. I was suspended between the children and the leaders- more than once asked, “Are you a camper?” In fact, I was the oldest camper. Something I (thankfully) only realized after the production. A first, for me. And though I struggled in balancing Pan with my looming directorial commitment, The Glass Menagerie, it was a marvelous and fun experience.
Unbelievably enough, the cast performed perhaps closest to perfection as we ever have. Nearly all of our glitches during shows came from music cues or lighting which was a bit off. Nobody forgot crucial cues or dances (although Peter never could quite get the “I Gotta Crow” lyrics perfect. *wink*) - even though we all agreed that certain ensemble numbers could have used an extra week of rehearsing! After thirty-six hours of personal distraction and stress (mostly due to then-unresolved situations which affected me, but were out of my hands)… come show-time, I was pretty perfectly at peace.
The shows felt very relaxed, because we had our parts down so well. Just before the last show I must have had a wonderful kick of something- for I was literally bouncing and dancing with my pre-set children just before the musicians started up (Wendy laughed at me). Everyone had marvelous energy during that final performance, and lights and music went oh, so smooth. As we lined up in the green room for bows, I glanced once at my Wendy and tears almost came. I was so proud of her. She had come so naturally into this part, she who had not yet even had a speaking role in previous plays. She simply beamed with joy and post-show excitement; I felt the way she looked. I think instead of crying I ran up, hugged, and kissed her. Then the moment passed. And I thought, there’s my “Peter Pan” emotion, come and gone.
And then the oddest thing happened. I glowed and bounced during curtain call, applause, and post-show hugs. I bear-hugged every cast mate I could get my hands on. Then I was in the back, having had more laid back conversations with a few different audience members, and I saw Rachel. I imprisoned her presently in my hug, and thought (and, I think, told her something of) how I never expected her to meet my Pan standard. And she had met it. And, oh, I’ve watched her grow and mature, and face disappointment after disappointment when it comes to plays- and all in good season. I remember jumping up and down when I read on my email that she had been cast as Anne Shirley. I remembered her captivating Pan audition that totally took me by surprise. I thought of how, by the last show especially, her movements, face and tone were so like a little boy. And I was so relieved we had pulled it off, that I cried. I hugged her, and I laughed, and I inexplicably cried, (all at the same time) burying my face in her shoulder. And I looked up, and she was crying and laughing with me. And we both laughed some more, because we never cry after shows.
I suppose it was fitting, although humorous for me, still, in retrospect. My happiness was overflowing. My heart was as full as it could have been with pleasure and pride in seeing the growth and accomplishments of the people I love most in the world. I suppose that was it. I just didn’t have room for anything else- so I had to let something out.
(Well, the run on the lawn we had afterward helped with that, too.)
Monday, January 26, 2009
egypt
[a resurrected story from the dinosaur computer w/a few minor edits]
An original story based on Exodus chapters 7-11 of the Holy Bible
The hot summer sun beat down on the stone jar that sat atop Menena's head, warming her russet hair. Her light brown skin tingled with sunburn as she walked back to her little house of white stone. Her sandaled feet shuffled in the dirt, creating tiny clouds of dust which rose up to her ankles. Humming softly to herself, she looked ahead to see if she could spot her mother washing clothes in front of their home. Sure enough, the young woman who was Menena's mother was bending over a washtub scrubbing garments in the cool spring water, though most of it had spilled onto the dry, sandy grass. She could see their small donkey penned up in the fence beside the house, being tended to by a little servant girl.
"Ah, Menena," her mother said, smiling as she saw her daughter approaching. She stood up and arched her back, wincing slightly. "You've got the water?" she asked.
Menena nodded, slowly and carefully emptying the jar's contents into the washing bucket. "Yes Mama, I've brought it."
"Good girl," the woman replied, kissing the top of Menena's head. "I'll be done in a little while, then; go inside and see your brother."
Menena nodded and ran to pass through the river-reed door of their house. "Aren!" she cried, running across the floor and flinging off her sandals. The cool stone felt good compared the hot sand of outdoors. "Aren, where are you?" she repeated.
"Right here, stop your shouting," a boy replied, walking into the room. He came over to Menena and ruffled her already tousled hair. Menena only came up to her brother's chest, for Aren was already three when she was born, and now she was ten years of age. He smiled playfully at her as she wrapped her arms around his coarse grey shirt. "How have you been today? Helping Mama?" Aren asked her, his dark hair falling into his eyes.
"Yes, and now you're to watch over me while she finishes washing clothes," Menena said, her eyes twinkling.
"You can take care of yourself perfectly well."
"Won't you play with me?" she asked pitifully.
"All right, fine," he said, kissing her forehead and taking her small hand.
*
Menena rolled Aren over, with considerable trouble, until he lay flat on his back. Then, with a grin, she stood on the chair and jumped onto his stomach. With a groan Aren clutched his stomach then grabbed her and began to tickle her. Upon hearing shrieks of laughter from Menena, their mother rushed into the room.
"What is going on?" she asked, exasperated, and looked around to verify that all the furniture was still intact.
"Let me go- Aren!" Menena cried breathlessly, still unable to quiet her laughing. Aren gave a wry smile and released her, and their mother shook her head with a soft laugh. Her mother turned to leave, but stopped abruptly as she faced the window.
"What...?" she said suddenly, turning around. Menena followed her mother's gaze to the window, its only adornment two pale curtains blowing about in the cool evening air. The bucket of water was still on the ground outside the house, visible through the window. But the water was different, the color was red and thick, so you could not see the bottom of the bucket. It looked like blood.
*
The sky was utterly black, so black that Menena felt as if she were going to be swallowed by it. In the dead of night it was always black, but this was much more. It had been dark all that day, and the day before it. For so long had it been so wholly dark and black that days seemed to run together throughout all Egypt. The little stone house was quiet; Aren, Menena and their mother were all huddled together in one bed. Menena's mother and brother were asleep, but she could not rest. Her open eyes darted this way and that, dreading the sound of humming flies, croak of frogs, or horrid click of a locust wing. The light of the wall-mounted torch cast weak, flickering orange shadows across the small room, but outside of the window all was black.
Even if there had been light outside, Menena would not have wanted to look. Their small donkey had died of a strange plague, its carcass later to be beaten down by hail and rain. Menena whimpered, still able to feel the hideous boils on her skin. But the servant girl they kept had not been affected by the boils; she only seemed very troubled and sorrowful about what had happened to them. There were rumors of a strange man in Egypt, stirring up trouble for no good reason. But the serving girl was always silent, though she prayed often, always silently to her unseen god.
Menena crept out of bed slowly, hearing the servant girl shutting the door. Every day, after the sun set, the little Jewess would walk to her home. Now Menena could see she was going about this evening routine, bearing a small torch. She silently followed the serving girl until she was out of the house and could see the light of the torch. She followed her for a long while, the silence eerie and terrifying. The girl looked around once she reached the street where she lived, amidst several other houses belonging to Hebrew slaves. Menena looked around in wonder as she saw that all of the houses, including that of the servant girl, had been smeared with blood around the doorposts. The door of the girl's house opened and a voice speaking in Hebrew said something urgent. The girl said nothing, but ran inside quickly.
Menena started as a single noise was heard, like a muffled crack of thunder. Looking up to the black sky, she could see neither stars nor moon. Then, slowly from the inky heavens came a slender, sneaky trail of fog. It was pale, almost white, but there were subtle glistens running through it, like sunlight on a babbling brook. It coiled slowly down, weaving in between far away slave houses. Crying out, her voice breaking the thick silence, Menena swerved around in terror and ran as fast as she could back to her house, her bare feet thumping the ground. By the time she reached her home, the smoke was nearly upon her. She raced in the door and through the house until she finally collapsed onto the bed where her family was sleeping. Darting under the covers, she snuggled up against Aren, fixing her thoughts on the slow heaving of his chest to keep her distracted from frightening thoughts. Just as she had finally stilled her own frantic breathing, a chill ran through her body. A freezing wind rushed throughout the house, nearly stopping her breath, filling her very bones with cold. Then the next instant it was gone. Aren stirred briefly, and a frightened tear ran down her face.
"Aren, what was that?" she whispered, putting her hand on his shoulder. The rhythmic heaving of his chest abruptly stopped. She shook his shoulder frantically, gasping. Placing her head against his chest, something inside her wondered if he, perhaps, was no longer sleeping. "Aren!" she whispered again, not even noticing the twinkle of a star that came from the sky. His pale and deathly face was still, and her eyes opened wider, filling with tears.
"Aren?"
An original story based on Exodus chapters 7-11 of the Holy Bible
The hot summer sun beat down on the stone jar that sat atop Menena's head, warming her russet hair. Her light brown skin tingled with sunburn as she walked back to her little house of white stone. Her sandaled feet shuffled in the dirt, creating tiny clouds of dust which rose up to her ankles. Humming softly to herself, she looked ahead to see if she could spot her mother washing clothes in front of their home. Sure enough, the young woman who was Menena's mother was bending over a washtub scrubbing garments in the cool spring water, though most of it had spilled onto the dry, sandy grass. She could see their small donkey penned up in the fence beside the house, being tended to by a little servant girl.
"Ah, Menena," her mother said, smiling as she saw her daughter approaching. She stood up and arched her back, wincing slightly. "You've got the water?" she asked.
Menena nodded, slowly and carefully emptying the jar's contents into the washing bucket. "Yes Mama, I've brought it."
"Good girl," the woman replied, kissing the top of Menena's head. "I'll be done in a little while, then; go inside and see your brother."
Menena nodded and ran to pass through the river-reed door of their house. "Aren!" she cried, running across the floor and flinging off her sandals. The cool stone felt good compared the hot sand of outdoors. "Aren, where are you?" she repeated.
"Right here, stop your shouting," a boy replied, walking into the room. He came over to Menena and ruffled her already tousled hair. Menena only came up to her brother's chest, for Aren was already three when she was born, and now she was ten years of age. He smiled playfully at her as she wrapped her arms around his coarse grey shirt. "How have you been today? Helping Mama?" Aren asked her, his dark hair falling into his eyes.
"Yes, and now you're to watch over me while she finishes washing clothes," Menena said, her eyes twinkling.
"You can take care of yourself perfectly well."
"Won't you play with me?" she asked pitifully.
"All right, fine," he said, kissing her forehead and taking her small hand.
*
Menena rolled Aren over, with considerable trouble, until he lay flat on his back. Then, with a grin, she stood on the chair and jumped onto his stomach. With a groan Aren clutched his stomach then grabbed her and began to tickle her. Upon hearing shrieks of laughter from Menena, their mother rushed into the room.
"What is going on?" she asked, exasperated, and looked around to verify that all the furniture was still intact.
"Let me go- Aren!" Menena cried breathlessly, still unable to quiet her laughing. Aren gave a wry smile and released her, and their mother shook her head with a soft laugh. Her mother turned to leave, but stopped abruptly as she faced the window.
"What...?" she said suddenly, turning around. Menena followed her mother's gaze to the window, its only adornment two pale curtains blowing about in the cool evening air. The bucket of water was still on the ground outside the house, visible through the window. But the water was different, the color was red and thick, so you could not see the bottom of the bucket. It looked like blood.
*
The sky was utterly black, so black that Menena felt as if she were going to be swallowed by it. In the dead of night it was always black, but this was much more. It had been dark all that day, and the day before it. For so long had it been so wholly dark and black that days seemed to run together throughout all Egypt. The little stone house was quiet; Aren, Menena and their mother were all huddled together in one bed. Menena's mother and brother were asleep, but she could not rest. Her open eyes darted this way and that, dreading the sound of humming flies, croak of frogs, or horrid click of a locust wing. The light of the wall-mounted torch cast weak, flickering orange shadows across the small room, but outside of the window all was black.
Even if there had been light outside, Menena would not have wanted to look. Their small donkey had died of a strange plague, its carcass later to be beaten down by hail and rain. Menena whimpered, still able to feel the hideous boils on her skin. But the servant girl they kept had not been affected by the boils; she only seemed very troubled and sorrowful about what had happened to them. There were rumors of a strange man in Egypt, stirring up trouble for no good reason. But the serving girl was always silent, though she prayed often, always silently to her unseen god.
Menena crept out of bed slowly, hearing the servant girl shutting the door. Every day, after the sun set, the little Jewess would walk to her home. Now Menena could see she was going about this evening routine, bearing a small torch. She silently followed the serving girl until she was out of the house and could see the light of the torch. She followed her for a long while, the silence eerie and terrifying. The girl looked around once she reached the street where she lived, amidst several other houses belonging to Hebrew slaves. Menena looked around in wonder as she saw that all of the houses, including that of the servant girl, had been smeared with blood around the doorposts. The door of the girl's house opened and a voice speaking in Hebrew said something urgent. The girl said nothing, but ran inside quickly.
Menena started as a single noise was heard, like a muffled crack of thunder. Looking up to the black sky, she could see neither stars nor moon. Then, slowly from the inky heavens came a slender, sneaky trail of fog. It was pale, almost white, but there were subtle glistens running through it, like sunlight on a babbling brook. It coiled slowly down, weaving in between far away slave houses. Crying out, her voice breaking the thick silence, Menena swerved around in terror and ran as fast as she could back to her house, her bare feet thumping the ground. By the time she reached her home, the smoke was nearly upon her. She raced in the door and through the house until she finally collapsed onto the bed where her family was sleeping. Darting under the covers, she snuggled up against Aren, fixing her thoughts on the slow heaving of his chest to keep her distracted from frightening thoughts. Just as she had finally stilled her own frantic breathing, a chill ran through her body. A freezing wind rushed throughout the house, nearly stopping her breath, filling her very bones with cold. Then the next instant it was gone. Aren stirred briefly, and a frightened tear ran down her face.
"Aren, what was that?" she whispered, putting her hand on his shoulder. The rhythmic heaving of his chest abruptly stopped. She shook his shoulder frantically, gasping. Placing her head against his chest, something inside her wondered if he, perhaps, was no longer sleeping. "Aren!" she whispered again, not even noticing the twinkle of a star that came from the sky. His pale and deathly face was still, and her eyes opened wider, filling with tears.
"Aren?"
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
"if I had a million dollars"
I think if I had wealth beyond imagination, I know what I would do.
Aside from practical concerns which would be taken care of, and the beautiful task of feeding the poor and dressing the naked and furthering God's work. [so, I'm talking, REALLY unimaginable wealth]
I would love to patron the arts. Films, specifically. Because films are no longer [if they ever were] made for the sake of art and beauty. It's all money, money, money. Filmmakers make films because they think people will spend their money to see the films. And film producers only back films if they think it will acrue monetary gain. That is, mostly. There are always exceptions.
But doesn't that seem like a shame to anyone else? Doesn't it seem like a shame that only mindless or erotic films get made- because people will most certainly watch them? Or perhaps the excellent film that gets an unrelated, explicit love scene spliced into it, because sex sells.
Art is broad. But films are very rarely art. I know there are filmmakers who would love to be patronized- if anyone wanted to spend money on art instead of chick flicks.
That's what I would do. Get good films made.
Aside from practical concerns which would be taken care of, and the beautiful task of feeding the poor and dressing the naked and furthering God's work. [so, I'm talking, REALLY unimaginable wealth]
I would love to patron the arts. Films, specifically. Because films are no longer [if they ever were] made for the sake of art and beauty. It's all money, money, money. Filmmakers make films because they think people will spend their money to see the films. And film producers only back films if they think it will acrue monetary gain. That is, mostly. There are always exceptions.
But doesn't that seem like a shame to anyone else? Doesn't it seem like a shame that only mindless or erotic films get made- because people will most certainly watch them? Or perhaps the excellent film that gets an unrelated, explicit love scene spliced into it, because sex sells.
Art is broad. But films are very rarely art. I know there are filmmakers who would love to be patronized- if anyone wanted to spend money on art instead of chick flicks.
That's what I would do. Get good films made.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
[[who are you following?]]
Then some Pharisees and teachers of the law came to Jesus from Jerusalem and asked, "Why do your disciples break the tradition of the elders? They don't wash their hands before they eat."
Jesus replied, "And why do you break the command of God for the sake of your tradition?"
Jesus replied, "And why do you break the command of God for the sake of your tradition?"
Monday, January 5, 2009
church
from the things I have learned from scripture...and in my own life...church is many things. church is also not many things, which I think I realize more every day. church, to me, is not hearing a wise sermon once a week. church, to me, is not singing along with a praise band to our Lord. those are good, and I believe necessary things. in fact, worshiping my saviour through song is often the only activity which gives me true peace, because God is allowing me to praise Him in the way He best designed me to.
but it's not church. not really. church is looking around me and seeing my family. is looking around me and seeing Christ in the faces. church is who I am sitting next to, and across from, and that our hearts desire to bring glory and honor to Christ.
perhaps this clears my confusion a little bit. I am not attending my church, I am simply attending what IS church to many people. I am compelled to wait for a season before I can seek out church for myself, but I think this time of waiting is bringing more clarity to me every day.
this definition of church explains why church to me has not often been found in a church-building. I have found church in a half dozen church-buildings, but in a back room, praying, with paint on my face and funny clothes on. I have found church on a website with a handful of girls. I have found church in a chat room, or in letters passed between sisters in Christ. I have found church in my own living room, and in the living rooms of friends. I don't think an evening of watching "A Muppet Christmas Carol" and a time of church have to be mutually exclusive.
and so, I am alone. I pass from church to church, never knowing when the next opportunity will arise. I long to find a real church in a real building where I can go once a week. I know that others have found it. I have seen it, most often in a gathering of young people in a big building on the south side of the river. tears coursed down my face and I felt the freedom and closeness to lift my hands and my voice. I found church in that place. but it cannot be every week, for me. I have found church in a family room, after giving thanks for the Lord's supper, with friends who need no church building.
[I am inclined to think that they have it most right of all.]
and I sigh, and I sing songs and listen to a sermon every week. and I get a real church fix every now and then, but not hardly often enough.
and I wait
Wait for the LORD; be strong and take heart and wait for the LORD.
[psalm 27:14]
but it's not church. not really. church is looking around me and seeing my family. is looking around me and seeing Christ in the faces. church is who I am sitting next to, and across from, and that our hearts desire to bring glory and honor to Christ.
perhaps this clears my confusion a little bit. I am not attending my church, I am simply attending what IS church to many people. I am compelled to wait for a season before I can seek out church for myself, but I think this time of waiting is bringing more clarity to me every day.
this definition of church explains why church to me has not often been found in a church-building. I have found church in a half dozen church-buildings, but in a back room, praying, with paint on my face and funny clothes on. I have found church on a website with a handful of girls. I have found church in a chat room, or in letters passed between sisters in Christ. I have found church in my own living room, and in the living rooms of friends. I don't think an evening of watching "A Muppet Christmas Carol" and a time of church have to be mutually exclusive.
and so, I am alone. I pass from church to church, never knowing when the next opportunity will arise. I long to find a real church in a real building where I can go once a week. I know that others have found it. I have seen it, most often in a gathering of young people in a big building on the south side of the river. tears coursed down my face and I felt the freedom and closeness to lift my hands and my voice. I found church in that place. but it cannot be every week, for me. I have found church in a family room, after giving thanks for the Lord's supper, with friends who need no church building.
[I am inclined to think that they have it most right of all.]
and I sigh, and I sing songs and listen to a sermon every week. and I get a real church fix every now and then, but not hardly often enough.
and I wait
Wait for the LORD; be strong and take heart and wait for the LORD.
[psalm 27:14]
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