I kicked a duck today. I was in the park. I kicked a duck in the park today. I was sitting on the edge of the lake, trying to figure out what had happened to me over the past 23 years, when a large pile of ducks plopped up on the shore. It looked like they were in a huddle of some sort, like pictures I've seen of rugby players. It made me smile at first. Ducks are kind of cute, you know. They kept pecking at something in the middle of their little circle. I was curious, so I went over to see what it was. It was a female duck. It must be mating season. When ducks have sex, it isn't cute. It's probably the least cute thing they do. They have to grab the female by the back of the neck, and stand up on top of her. It looks like it hurts. I think I was right, because this female was trying as hard as she could to get away. She couldn't, though, because she had to fight off so many. There were about 10 male ducks on top of her. She broke loose and made it to the water but they caught up with her again, They were holding her under water. I don't think she could breathe, and it seemed like the other ducks didn't care. They dragged her up on the shore again, and I could see that most of the fight was out of her, but she was still struggling. They kept pecking at her, and I could see that the feathers were gone from the back of her neck, and her head was bleeding. My God, they are going to kill her.
People have always said of me that I am more emotionally involved with most things than I should be. That's probably true, and I think I proved it today. I couldn't just sit there and watch these ducks kill another duck just because they were horny, so I got up, and tried to scare them off her. They all scattered instantly, except for one guy. He was probably captain of the duck football team or something. Douche bag. Duck bag? I don't know. I kicked him. I kicked him square in the stomach, and he went flying. She got away, and got a serious head start. He and his crew caught up with her on the other side of the lake, where I assume he got what he wanted, since the struggling stopped.
I'm an idiot, really. Appointing myself chancellor of duck rape prevention. And failing. I guess I really don't know what else to do. Ducks aren't really that cute after all. They remind me of humans in far too many ways. I wish...
I don't know what I wish. I guess I just wish I didn't feel so close to all this mess. Human beings aren't really that much better at relationships than ducks. I can see some of them across the shore, flapping their wings in the air with their chests puffed out. I used to think that was cute. Arrogant bastards.
24.5.08
20.5.08
Old vs. Home (the difference between giving up and letting go)
I made a playlist of depressing songs today. Just a list of every song I've ever heard that has made me feel like crying. 76 songs. Over 3.5 hours later, and all I can think is that I cry too much. Or no one else cries enough. One way or the other, I'm just a person with a lot of feelings, and they don't always fit inside me, so they have to come out. This is one of those feelings. It's been inside me for a long time, so...be warned.
When I was little, I cried a lot. Not, I don't cry so much. It's not because life got easier, but more because I got tired of crying about everything. So, I stopped. One day, I just said to myself enough, boys don't cry, and I stopped. There was this Element 101 song called "The Fragile" that I lived in high school, because it was just so true to how I felt about life.Thee were these lyrics that kept repeating on my head over and over again. "When you shut the door/ And lay yourself on the floor/ That's how you know/ That's when you know that you're old./" Don't slow down. Don't give up. Don't close the door. Don't lay on the floor. That will be the end of you. I carried that philosophy most of my life. Never show any weakness and never admit that you're tired. I put up a good fight for a long time. I didn't lay down on the floor, but I was tired. I started crying again this last year. I just couldn't hold up that front any longer. It's amazing how different it is when you don't have to fight alone. When your friends can wipe your tars, and hug you and pray for you. Putting up a brave front never seemed so stupid to me in my life. Maybe Element 101 was wrong. Maybe it's better to be old.
I was at the beach this last Friday with my friends. I was going to graduate from college the next day. My family was going to visit me at the beach. The two worlds that rarely come together. As I sat on the beach, worshiping God with my friends, and anticipating the long overdue arrival of my family, I laid myself on the floor of the beach, and stared up at the sky. The stars stood out like pins holding this giant quilt of space up like a canopy of protection over me. The ocean breeze, mixed with the laughter of familiar friends was the closest to the voice of God that I have ever heard.
"This is how I know.../"
My family came up and surprised me from behind, and I hugged each of them as family deserves to be hugged. I needed a moment to soak all this in. This was not giving up. This is what I had been waiting for, and missing all along.
I just listened to that Element 101 song again, and it's really funny how your attitude can really color your perspective. That lyric, the one that had been playing in my head forever was wrong. Those weren't the words at all.
"When you shut the door/ And lay yourself on the floor/ That's how you know/ That's when you know that you're home./"
The door is closed, and I am laying on the ground. I am home.
When I was little, I cried a lot. Not, I don't cry so much. It's not because life got easier, but more because I got tired of crying about everything. So, I stopped. One day, I just said to myself enough, boys don't cry, and I stopped. There was this Element 101 song called "The Fragile" that I lived in high school, because it was just so true to how I felt about life.Thee were these lyrics that kept repeating on my head over and over again. "When you shut the door/ And lay yourself on the floor/ That's how you know/ That's when you know that you're old./" Don't slow down. Don't give up. Don't close the door. Don't lay on the floor. That will be the end of you. I carried that philosophy most of my life. Never show any weakness and never admit that you're tired. I put up a good fight for a long time. I didn't lay down on the floor, but I was tired. I started crying again this last year. I just couldn't hold up that front any longer. It's amazing how different it is when you don't have to fight alone. When your friends can wipe your tars, and hug you and pray for you. Putting up a brave front never seemed so stupid to me in my life. Maybe Element 101 was wrong. Maybe it's better to be old.
I was at the beach this last Friday with my friends. I was going to graduate from college the next day. My family was going to visit me at the beach. The two worlds that rarely come together. As I sat on the beach, worshiping God with my friends, and anticipating the long overdue arrival of my family, I laid myself on the floor of the beach, and stared up at the sky. The stars stood out like pins holding this giant quilt of space up like a canopy of protection over me. The ocean breeze, mixed with the laughter of familiar friends was the closest to the voice of God that I have ever heard.
"This is how I know.../"
My family came up and surprised me from behind, and I hugged each of them as family deserves to be hugged. I needed a moment to soak all this in. This was not giving up. This is what I had been waiting for, and missing all along.
I just listened to that Element 101 song again, and it's really funny how your attitude can really color your perspective. That lyric, the one that had been playing in my head forever was wrong. Those weren't the words at all.
"When you shut the door/ And lay yourself on the floor/ That's how you know/ That's when you know that you're home./"
The door is closed, and I am laying on the ground. I am home.
Steve the Tomato
I have an uncle named Steve, and he looks like a tomato. He's a big round guy. He's not just fat, his belly pokes out of his body like he's pregnant with triplets. And he's not the jiggly, jolly type of fat, he's just round. Big and round. Even his gums are big and round. They overlap the edge of his teeth like silly putty. His skin is bright red. Red like a...yeah, like a tomato. Honestly, it's like he got really sunburned one day, and then decided he liked that color, and kept his skin in a constant state of burn. I can't really take him seriously, because every time I see him, the theme from VeggieTales plays in my head.
I don't really get along with my uncle, and it doesn't have anything to do with the fact that he looks like a human vegetable (I mean fruit). He's kind of in a cult. If any of my CSUF peeps have had any run ins with the campus group "Christian Students", you'll know what I mean. He's with them. Some of the things that he believes are just so strange to me, and I find myself embarrassed by him sometimes, especially because he claims that his beliefs are not cultish but a truer interpretation of Christianity. Beyond that, he is sooooo stubborn. I once had a conversation with him for over a half hour about a stupid game of poker. He was so obviously wrong, and everyone in the room knew it, but I guess he thought that if he didn't admit defeat he would still be right somehow. This mentality carries over into every aspect of his life. My mom won't even talk to him anymore. My mother is the sweetest, most forgiving and patient person in the world (She's married to my Dad, enough said) and SHE gave up on him. Often enough, I wonder why my aunt Claudia even married him. I guess maybe he was attractive at one point. That, however, is now gone, and he is just this big, stubborn...tomato of a man.
I guess the point of all this really made sense to me this last weekend. My cousin Becky got married last weekend (the day of my graduation), so the whole family packed into three cars and headed out to the sweltering heat of San Bernadino, to go to a crazy cult wedding. Actually, the service wasn't that bad, and the man who is marrying my cousin seems like a nice, mentally stable man. I really didn't expect that. I saw my uncle across the room at the reception, and as he crossed over to say his hellos, I prepared myself to make small talk that didn't involve theology, poker, or fruits that everyone thinks are vegetables. Fortunately, I had a lot of material to talk about, with recent family developments and all. Steve came up, shook my hand, and told me how excited he was to see two more weddings in the family (My sister and my brother) coming up this summer. "All my children are finally married," he said. "So, I guess you're next." I had to laugh (It's better than the other option). I am incurably single, you see. Beyond that, I had just received a bachelor's degree that morning. Marriage at this point would simply be false advertising. I tried to explain this to my uncle, but I mentioned before how stubborn he is. He stopped me in the middle. "Listen," he said. "All you need to do is find a woman that loves the Lord." "Oh crap," I thought. "He wants to talk about God." I further explained that while, yes, that is the top priority, there are other factors to consider, such as compatibility, and common interests. The whole time, he was shaking his head at me. "The only reason anyone can ever get along is the resurrection," he replied, in his all-too-sure-of-himself preacher voice. He put his hand on my shoulder. For a man who walks around with such a glazed over look on his face, Steve has a pretty strong grip. I'll never forget what he said to me. "Take the advice of a loser who somehow made it thirty seven years. I slipped on a banana peel in the first round, and somehow made it up again. and now, look at all of this." He spread his arms out and pointed to the corners of the room, where his wife, his children, and grandchildren were sitting, laughing and playing around. "If I can make it," he said, "You can make it."
I'm not really the type of person who gets super depressed about being single. Not anymore, at least. I figure I'll probably someday meet someone really cool, who has poor taste in men, and we'll go from there. And if not, oh well. Life's too short to waste it complaining and feeling sorry for yourself. And I've been given so much, what right do I have to complain anyway? Even still, I can't deny I was a little jealous of uncle Steve, and what God had given him that night. I wonder what it would feel like to be a husband, then father, then grandfather. He's been those things for longer than I've been alive. I don't think my uncle has the scriptures completely correct. Not by a long shot. Even still, if you look at all that God has given him, and his attitude about receiving it, you cant help but wonder. Maybe God loves my uncle as much as he loves me.
Oh, and I can be pretty stubborn too.
I don't really get along with my uncle, and it doesn't have anything to do with the fact that he looks like a human vegetable (I mean fruit). He's kind of in a cult. If any of my CSUF peeps have had any run ins with the campus group "Christian Students", you'll know what I mean. He's with them. Some of the things that he believes are just so strange to me, and I find myself embarrassed by him sometimes, especially because he claims that his beliefs are not cultish but a truer interpretation of Christianity. Beyond that, he is sooooo stubborn. I once had a conversation with him for over a half hour about a stupid game of poker. He was so obviously wrong, and everyone in the room knew it, but I guess he thought that if he didn't admit defeat he would still be right somehow. This mentality carries over into every aspect of his life. My mom won't even talk to him anymore. My mother is the sweetest, most forgiving and patient person in the world (She's married to my Dad, enough said) and SHE gave up on him. Often enough, I wonder why my aunt Claudia even married him. I guess maybe he was attractive at one point. That, however, is now gone, and he is just this big, stubborn...tomato of a man.
I guess the point of all this really made sense to me this last weekend. My cousin Becky got married last weekend (the day of my graduation), so the whole family packed into three cars and headed out to the sweltering heat of San Bernadino, to go to a crazy cult wedding. Actually, the service wasn't that bad, and the man who is marrying my cousin seems like a nice, mentally stable man. I really didn't expect that. I saw my uncle across the room at the reception, and as he crossed over to say his hellos, I prepared myself to make small talk that didn't involve theology, poker, or fruits that everyone thinks are vegetables. Fortunately, I had a lot of material to talk about, with recent family developments and all. Steve came up, shook my hand, and told me how excited he was to see two more weddings in the family (My sister and my brother) coming up this summer. "All my children are finally married," he said. "So, I guess you're next." I had to laugh (It's better than the other option). I am incurably single, you see. Beyond that, I had just received a bachelor's degree that morning. Marriage at this point would simply be false advertising. I tried to explain this to my uncle, but I mentioned before how stubborn he is. He stopped me in the middle. "Listen," he said. "All you need to do is find a woman that loves the Lord." "Oh crap," I thought. "He wants to talk about God." I further explained that while, yes, that is the top priority, there are other factors to consider, such as compatibility, and common interests. The whole time, he was shaking his head at me. "The only reason anyone can ever get along is the resurrection," he replied, in his all-too-sure-of-himself preacher voice. He put his hand on my shoulder. For a man who walks around with such a glazed over look on his face, Steve has a pretty strong grip. I'll never forget what he said to me. "Take the advice of a loser who somehow made it thirty seven years. I slipped on a banana peel in the first round, and somehow made it up again. and now, look at all of this." He spread his arms out and pointed to the corners of the room, where his wife, his children, and grandchildren were sitting, laughing and playing around. "If I can make it," he said, "You can make it."
I'm not really the type of person who gets super depressed about being single. Not anymore, at least. I figure I'll probably someday meet someone really cool, who has poor taste in men, and we'll go from there. And if not, oh well. Life's too short to waste it complaining and feeling sorry for yourself. And I've been given so much, what right do I have to complain anyway? Even still, I can't deny I was a little jealous of uncle Steve, and what God had given him that night. I wonder what it would feel like to be a husband, then father, then grandfather. He's been those things for longer than I've been alive. I don't think my uncle has the scriptures completely correct. Not by a long shot. Even still, if you look at all that God has given him, and his attitude about receiving it, you cant help but wonder. Maybe God loves my uncle as much as he loves me.
Oh, and I can be pretty stubborn too.
12.5.08
Basslines and Bible Belts
I went to a club last Saturday. I don't normally go clubbing, but I'm not one of those people who thinks that clubbing is inherently evil. Sure, there are lots of things you could do at a club that would come back to haunt you, but mostly it's just a bunch of people dancing around and trying to look cool. I don't really get what the big deal is, but I went anyway.
Clubs are dark. The people who go to clubs are cool. They look cool, at least. Maybe they look cool because of how dark it is. When it's dark, you can kind of be whatever you want. You could say that you are everything you ever wished you were. Who would know that you're not? No one. You're unbelievably cool, until the light comes on. My friend saw someone she knew outside of the club. He tried to hit on her. He didn't realize yet that we were outside of the club and we could see him. He wasn't cool anymore. It's weird. there's these bright flashes of light that come from strobes and these video screens they had up. When they go off, you can see everything as it is, for just a second. Everyone trying so hard. Trying hard to be seen, but not fully. To be only seen as a shadow, because the light ruins the illusion of their existence. Of what their existence has been fabricated to be. It struck me last night that people want to hide, but they need to be seen. They need to be known for who they are, not the dressed up, sexualized, super slick, slightly drunk version of themselves that they have grown to prefer. People need brief flashes of light to remind them of who they truly are. It's not good enough just to be known, though. You have to be loved, with the lights on, wearing your messy clothes, putting your hair into a sloppy bun. Just as you are. I realized last night that no one ever told the girls in that club any of those things. They know that they have to hide, or be alone, and the flashes of light only hurt their eyes.
It's a sad thing that I've seen. People who would choose the darkest corners of the room over breif flashes of light, because they do not know. They are not known.
Clubs are dark. The people who go to clubs are cool. They look cool, at least. Maybe they look cool because of how dark it is. When it's dark, you can kind of be whatever you want. You could say that you are everything you ever wished you were. Who would know that you're not? No one. You're unbelievably cool, until the light comes on. My friend saw someone she knew outside of the club. He tried to hit on her. He didn't realize yet that we were outside of the club and we could see him. He wasn't cool anymore. It's weird. there's these bright flashes of light that come from strobes and these video screens they had up. When they go off, you can see everything as it is, for just a second. Everyone trying so hard. Trying hard to be seen, but not fully. To be only seen as a shadow, because the light ruins the illusion of their existence. Of what their existence has been fabricated to be. It struck me last night that people want to hide, but they need to be seen. They need to be known for who they are, not the dressed up, sexualized, super slick, slightly drunk version of themselves that they have grown to prefer. People need brief flashes of light to remind them of who they truly are. It's not good enough just to be known, though. You have to be loved, with the lights on, wearing your messy clothes, putting your hair into a sloppy bun. Just as you are. I realized last night that no one ever told the girls in that club any of those things. They know that they have to hide, or be alone, and the flashes of light only hurt their eyes.
It's a sad thing that I've seen. People who would choose the darkest corners of the room over breif flashes of light, because they do not know. They are not known.
4.5.08
Worship part II: From Ignorance to Arrogance
So...This is the last of my two posts on the subject of worship (though I'm sure it will come up again at some point). Worship is a huge part of my life, as mentioned before, but there's this love-hate relationship that I keep coming back to about the narrow definition of worship that we have as 20 something middle class Americans who (let's face it) have spent most of their lives in relative comfort. I run into this problem because I don't feel like we can actually ever grasp the true meaning and purpose of worship. I feel like money solves so many problems here. Are we as grateful for God as we are for our ability to move autonomously in this economy? Should we be worshiping money? Don't we already do that?
Worship is a reflection of our need for God. If we could really understand that, I feel like worship would be constantly flowing out of us, in every form, from singing and dancing, to poetry and photography, and sacrificial love and acts of servant hood. Worship is our response to God's romance. I have several friends right now who are in love. As an outside observer, sometimes I find this annoying, because they talk about their significant others so much, as though I am as in love with this person as they are. The only response I can think of is "wow, you really like him/her a lot, don't you?" I think that is how our worship should be. That we are so in love with God that we are constantly singing and dancing, and talk about him so much, because we forget that everyone else isn't as in love with God as we are. And as God removes certain forms of bitterness from me, I've come to see my friend's (and siblings) relationships in a new light. I have grown to love people through that constant observation of my friends/brothers/sisters love for them. Love is more contagious than bitterness, envy, or even apathy. I actually think that's how evangelism is supposed to work too. Love is contagious.
So, I guess the question really is this: Is all that stuff I just said really what happens when I worship?
The answer is actually kind of complicated.
Sometimes when I am in the middle of worship, and I feel like my heart just isn't in it, I don't sing. I know how dangerous it is to base you spirituality on your emotions, so, sometimes when I feel that way, I sing even louder. I don't really think there's any real pattern to when and why I do this. I'm just confused a little, I guess. I want to be this person who is completely in love with God, and sings constantly about how good he is to me (I have a lot of things to sing about).
But sometimes I'm not.
Sometimes, in fact, worship is a chore. An activity. Something to check off my christian itinerary. I want it to be like that Jars of Clay song where they just keep singing over and over again "I want to fall in love with you." Is it worth singing when it's not about falling in love? I really honestly don't know. Maybe I'm too simplistic, or idealistic. Maybe there are times when our worship is passionate devotion, and others when it is patient dedication. I hope someday to be married. I hope to be a good husband. I plan on leaving notes on the bathroom mirror for my wife to find. I plan on going for walks with her along the beach at sunset, just for the occasion of holding her hand. I'm going to sing to her (lack of skill notwithstanding). I also know that being a good husband involves doing the dishes, taking out the garbage, driving kids to soccer games and changing poopy diapers. Which proves my love more? That I feel like doing these things for you because I love you, or that I am going to do these things for you that I don't feel like doing because I love you? I guess you need both.
Here's the thing: I've seen a lot of things when it comes to worship. I've seen elderly men and women singing the same hymns that they have sung since childhood. I've seen crackheads on the street crying out to God (with no musical accompaniment) because they know without him they'll die. I've been to trendy churches where some abercrombie guy who thinks he's Bono leads "worship for a new generation" complete with a drum and bass solo. I've seen hardcore kids, pierced and tattooed, screaming at the top of their lungs, worshiping God on their knees above a sweaty, sometimes bloody pit filled with kids who have no concept of who Jesus is. I've seen the laborers of the LA Urban Project worship as naturally and beautifully as breathing after a successful harvest. I've seen kneeling, crying, spiritual laughter, and speaking in tongues. It's not always emotional, and it's rarely pretty, but doesn't it all have its place? Even when we don't "feel it?"
I really don't know what my point is anymore.
Here's the thing, God. I know I need you. I really don't know how much, but somehow amid that fog of apathy I've surrounded myself with, and the distractions that keep me up at night, I know you, and I need you. I want to be grateful for any opportunity to speak about you and your romance. And if my emotions don't come with it, I will sing all the louder, because I know who I am, and who you are, and I don't deserve you. I doesn't matter to me anymore how I come to you, just that I come. Can you take care of the rest?
We worship God through our understanding of our own inefficiencies. It truly is ignorance to refuse to admit that fact, and arrogance to think that worship should always be accompanied by some feeling, even more fleeting than the lillies of the field, beautiful as they are.
Worship is a reflection of our need for God. If we could really understand that, I feel like worship would be constantly flowing out of us, in every form, from singing and dancing, to poetry and photography, and sacrificial love and acts of servant hood. Worship is our response to God's romance. I have several friends right now who are in love. As an outside observer, sometimes I find this annoying, because they talk about their significant others so much, as though I am as in love with this person as they are. The only response I can think of is "wow, you really like him/her a lot, don't you?" I think that is how our worship should be. That we are so in love with God that we are constantly singing and dancing, and talk about him so much, because we forget that everyone else isn't as in love with God as we are. And as God removes certain forms of bitterness from me, I've come to see my friend's (and siblings) relationships in a new light. I have grown to love people through that constant observation of my friends/brothers/sisters love for them. Love is more contagious than bitterness, envy, or even apathy. I actually think that's how evangelism is supposed to work too. Love is contagious.
So, I guess the question really is this: Is all that stuff I just said really what happens when I worship?
The answer is actually kind of complicated.
Sometimes when I am in the middle of worship, and I feel like my heart just isn't in it, I don't sing. I know how dangerous it is to base you spirituality on your emotions, so, sometimes when I feel that way, I sing even louder. I don't really think there's any real pattern to when and why I do this. I'm just confused a little, I guess. I want to be this person who is completely in love with God, and sings constantly about how good he is to me (I have a lot of things to sing about).
But sometimes I'm not.
Sometimes, in fact, worship is a chore. An activity. Something to check off my christian itinerary. I want it to be like that Jars of Clay song where they just keep singing over and over again "I want to fall in love with you." Is it worth singing when it's not about falling in love? I really honestly don't know. Maybe I'm too simplistic, or idealistic. Maybe there are times when our worship is passionate devotion, and others when it is patient dedication. I hope someday to be married. I hope to be a good husband. I plan on leaving notes on the bathroom mirror for my wife to find. I plan on going for walks with her along the beach at sunset, just for the occasion of holding her hand. I'm going to sing to her (lack of skill notwithstanding). I also know that being a good husband involves doing the dishes, taking out the garbage, driving kids to soccer games and changing poopy diapers. Which proves my love more? That I feel like doing these things for you because I love you, or that I am going to do these things for you that I don't feel like doing because I love you? I guess you need both.
Here's the thing: I've seen a lot of things when it comes to worship. I've seen elderly men and women singing the same hymns that they have sung since childhood. I've seen crackheads on the street crying out to God (with no musical accompaniment) because they know without him they'll die. I've been to trendy churches where some abercrombie guy who thinks he's Bono leads "worship for a new generation" complete with a drum and bass solo. I've seen hardcore kids, pierced and tattooed, screaming at the top of their lungs, worshiping God on their knees above a sweaty, sometimes bloody pit filled with kids who have no concept of who Jesus is. I've seen the laborers of the LA Urban Project worship as naturally and beautifully as breathing after a successful harvest. I've seen kneeling, crying, spiritual laughter, and speaking in tongues. It's not always emotional, and it's rarely pretty, but doesn't it all have its place? Even when we don't "feel it?"
I really don't know what my point is anymore.
Here's the thing, God. I know I need you. I really don't know how much, but somehow amid that fog of apathy I've surrounded myself with, and the distractions that keep me up at night, I know you, and I need you. I want to be grateful for any opportunity to speak about you and your romance. And if my emotions don't come with it, I will sing all the louder, because I know who I am, and who you are, and I don't deserve you. I doesn't matter to me anymore how I come to you, just that I come. Can you take care of the rest?
We worship God through our understanding of our own inefficiencies. It truly is ignorance to refuse to admit that fact, and arrogance to think that worship should always be accompanied by some feeling, even more fleeting than the lillies of the field, beautiful as they are.
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