Monday, June 24, 2013

In Which I Lay Down My Arms (Part 2)

Love.  It covers a multitude of sins.  It is patient and kind.  It doesn't envy or boast.  Love lays down its own life for a friend.  Love isn't self-seeking.  Perfect love casts out fear.

I.

A friend once described me as loyal.  Spoken, as they were, during - to put it lightly - a rough patch in our friendship, I clung to those words like a drowning woman clings to a life raft.  The world may have been falling to pieces around us, but he still thought I was loyal.  He knew, even though I had betrayed him in every sense possible, that I betrayed him because I loved him.  I haven't forgotten that description.  Years have passed, and it still never fails that when rough times come, I strive above all to be loyal to those I love.  One day not so long ago, that loyalty exposed a darker side of me, a side of which I had been unaware up to that point.  A side that wounded in a vain attempt to protect.

I lay down my arms.

II.

During the summer of 2011, I stumbled across a blog called Experimental Theology.  I started following it with considerable interest, discovering in myself a passion for theology that up to that point I had been somewhat unaware existed.  Coming, as it did, in the middle of my master's program, I soaked up this blogger's progressive views somewhat thirstily, not agreeing with everything but loving the questions he raised for me.  One link led to another, and by the time I moved to Georgia I was following a wide variety of progressive Christian blogs.  These blogs dove-tailed nicely with the way I had been taught to think in my post-high school education.  They reinforced concepts of social justice and open-mindedness that I found to be lacking in the Christian circles in which I had always run.

Slowly, but surely, I found myself perpetually angry.  Angry that other Christians couldn't see the truth of all of the matters, frustrated at the close-minded doctrines, irritated with the lack of attention to historic detail, so over emotional arguments that didn't make logical sense.  As I became more certain of what I believed, I was less amenable to difference of opinion.

I was falling, and lashing out at everyone around me as I did so.

I lay down my arms.

III.

He was angry.  To him, I was a traitor. So much of our friendship had been based on our common commitment to finding purpose in single hood.  And now I was no longer single, and he didn't understand.  I became defensive.  Attempted to convince him of the value of all relationships because of the value I find in mine.  In that moment, I saw myself as if I were an observer from the outside.  Having all the answers but none of the compassion.  And I knew, then, just how wrong I was.

I lay down my arms.

IV.

I can be a loyal friend, win all of the arguments, and give all of the perfect advice, but if I do not do these things from a place of love, it is nothing.  There is too much gray in the world to maintain any illusion of black and white.  Opinions, while nice, are just that: opinions.  None of us have any idea what we're doing or how we should live or what we should believe, and any claims to superior knowledge strike me as insanely suspect.  Including (and most of all) my own.

But there is one absolute: love.  If my actions are motivated by love, my opinions can be right, or they can be wrong, or something in between, and love will win.

There are so many things I don't know.  But this I know:

Love.

I lay down my arms.

Tuesday, June 18, 2013

"Don't let love pass you by..."

[I wrote this piece during another season of my life, and never posted it.  I found it tonight, and I thought I'd share.]

"Don't let love pass you by," he said.

And I didn't.  As love ambled by, I reached out and yanked it toward me.  We struggled for a long while out in the dark, abandoned alley.  And at the end, I lost.  Love passed me by.  Regardless of my struggle, my strength, my desire, love won.  And it passed me by.  Now I stand here still, in that alley of love-passing.  I reflect on love, on its passing, on its path of destruction, the death it wrought on my hopes.

"Don't let love pass you by," he said.

And I am so glad I couldn't prevent its passing.  What if love had stayed?  A circling storm, centered on my heart.  A penned bull, rampaging and infuriated.  A beautiful disaster consuming my heart and soul from the inside out.

"Don't let love pass you by," he said.

One day soon, love will again pass by, in all its seductive glory.  And I won't have a choice.  I will leap out of the shadows, grip it by the throat, and we will dance the dance of death.  I won't allow it to pass by unhindered, for love will not allow my ambivalence.  Love won't allow my disinterest.  Love will not pass me by without having a day with me.

Love: the ultimate death, the ultimate opponent, the ultimate victor.

"Don't let love pass you by," he said.

Perhaps the more appropriate statement, I think to myself, would be: "When love passes, it will always win.  You will always lose.  Until one day, when quite inexplicably, you will win."


Monday, June 17, 2013

God, must it always be like this?

There are moments when the emotions are too much.  Fear, joy, longing, uncertainty, nervousness, love, sadness; they all mingle together in a complex tapestry of desire for something just beyond my grasp.  I'm living in this place where my life isn't real, where the things and people in my life seem to be but peripheral, where the emotions rule all.

I'm not sure how to describe this place.

This place is a ball of fear in the pit of my stomach, a loss of appetite, an extreme conflict of desire and emotion.  I no longer know what I want or don't want.

Incomplete.

The control is gone.  Too many things have happened in the last few days that have taken control out of my hands.  My car is dead and I can't escape.  My independence is gone.  I'm trapped in an apartment with the internet.  The internet isn't real.  It doesn't satisfy.  Not even close.

It's nights like tonight that God seems distant.  He's always pretty quiet, but tonight I feel His silence particularly loudly.

God, can't we, like, hang out and stuff?  Can't I see you there, sitting on the floor across from me?  Why must we correspond in my mind all the time?  Why am I limited to hearing You through a Book or through the thoughtful words of friends?  Why is life so lonely?  I'm sorry that I so often do such a good job of distracting myself from the reality of Your silence.  I'm convinced that You want me to live in this silence, to long for more, because it is that longing that speaks volumes of my love for You.  But it's too easy to squash the longing.  To seek out people to fill the emptiness.  I think that's okay, but not always.  Tonight, make me okay with the sorrow, with the loneliness and separation, because I'm hoping that one day it might not be like this.

And so tonight I don't have the answers.  I think I'm done with answers.  I just have a question, a question that speaks loudly of the pit of fear and loneliness in the pit of my stomach.

God, must it always be like this?

Saturday, June 15, 2013

to be a peacemaker

I have a short list: a list of peacemakers.

He is one of the most thoughtful, knowledgeable, smart humans alive.  He reads widely and has a gift with words.  He probably has an opinion on most things.  In spite of his intelligence, I have never once witnessed him speaking down to someone or shaming someone.  He holds his opinions with humility and grace.  And although I’m sure I say many things that he disagrees with, he never says so – instead, he always takes the opportunity to remind me of my value as a daughter of the King.

She has known me for a while now, and she only gives advice when I ask for it.  But our conversations are always covered in love.  She understands the brokenness of life and my imperfections, and she probably disagrees with some of the things I say, but I’d never know it, because our conversations are characterized by love.

I’m pretty much always a mess, but he doesn’t condemn me.  He accepts me as I am – flaws readily apparent and all.  This gives me the courage to live for Jesus even more radically and determinedly than I thought possible.  I am better because of knowing him.

She knows me better than probably anyone on earth.  She knows my angry times, she knows my happy times, and she knows my prideful times.  But I never feel judgment or exasperation, only love.  Each and every time we talk, I leave the conversation feeling more peace than before.  She points me to Jesus through her love, and she is such an example to me of how to lead someone to Christ; it was her who, in the words of Jonathan Martin, “loved [me] enough to take [me] by the hand and lead [me] out into the aisle.” (Jonathan Martin, Protoype, p. 180)

This is what I want to be: a peacemaker.  I want my life to be defined, not by the opinions I hold or the arguments I win, but by the love I show and the peace I bring to those in my life.

When I have opinions, I want them to be opinions that give life, opinions that bring peace, and opinions that create beauty from ashes.  I want never to point out injustice without paving the way for justice.  I want to bring a violent peace to my world, a peace that is only mine to give because of the violent peace for which Christ suffered and died.  It's violent because it shakes the foundations of this sinful world, peace because it shatters evil by its very presence.

The night becomes day,
the darkness light.
The lonely places become saturated with Jesus
the sadness eternal joy.

1 John 1:5-9
This is the message we have heard from him and declare to you: God is light; in him there is no darkness at all. If we claim to have fellowship with him and yet walk in the darkness, we lie and do not live out the truth. But if we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus, his Son, purifies us from all sin.

Wednesday, June 12, 2013

In Which I Lay Down My Arms

I.

The smoke swirled about me so thickly I could barely see.  In the terror and confusion, my shot rang out, cutting through the cacophony of other shots, and to me it was as if it was just me out on the field.  And then the silence.  The dust settled, and as I got my visual bearings, I saw him there, lying wounded and dying by a dozen bullets.  And in that moment, I knew that no matter how many bullet wounds he bore, it was mine that hurt the most, mine that killed him.  I sank to my knees in shame and cried.

God, forgive me.

II.

I had always been a pacifist.  Always refused a gun because I knew the devastation they could cause.  Always cried out against war, against violence, against senseless death.  They called me weak.

I don't really know what changed.  Maybe it was watching my brother die in front of me that dark day three years ago, betrayed by our father.  Maybe it was a righteous desire to do something, anything, to bring peace to our world, to stop the deaths from piling up.  But one day, I picked up a gun.  And I began my descent into hell.

III.

I couldn't stop crying.  No, I'd never known him particularly well, never formed a lasting bond.  But he was one of us, one of our band, out to save the world.  We'd had such high hopes, such big dreams.  Together we'd make a difference.  We would bring peace.  Our violence was a necessary evil; it would bring an end to violence.

IV.

I am not sure how it happened.  What started as just another night around the campfire, just another go around the sun, turned into a heated debate, a scuffle near the fire, and then, the shot rang out.  All hell broke loose.  There was running and screaming.  And then, gun shots.  Survival of the fittest.  And, when it was all over, he was gone, dead in a pool of blood.  And I am sure it was my shot that killed him.

V.

As we huddle at the outskirts of the dying fire, each lost in a sea of shock and guilt, I know I will never be the same.  I will never fire another shot.  I consider my options.  I stagger to my feet, pulling my gun with me.  I walk toward the dying fire, and throw it in.  I turn and walk away, allowing the tears to fall as I do.  

I will forge a better way.

In that moment, I am reborn.

Sunday, June 9, 2013

Dear Church, Sincerely, Me. [the post about modesty that i really, really, REALLY didn't want to have to write.]

It's a story one too many times told.

***

She was young, so young.  Just becoming a young woman.  She had always struggled with seeing herself as she really was - beautiful inside and out and desperately loved by God.

It began as it always does: a church service project and a dress code.  Don't wear this, that, or the other thing - it might cause the boys to stumble.  We're here to serve Jesus; keep the focus on Him and not you.

And then she transgressed.  Her shorts were just above the invisible line of modest dress, and this would simply not do.  There's a rule in place, and so it was easy for the older woman who took her aside to simply follow the rules.  "Honey, your shorts are not modest.  You need to be more careful in what you wear."

Years have passed, but the scars linger.  She still talks about that day.

"They told me I wasn't being modest."

***

I spent years as a camp counselor at a Christian summer camp.  The "rules of modesty" were drummed into our heads:

1) No spaghetti straps or shirts with sleeves less than two fingers in width.
2) No cleavage.
3) No two piece swimsuits.
4) No stomach showing with hands raised
5) No short shorts (defined by longer than the second knuckle when hands are by sides).
6) No bra straps.
7) No writing on the back of your shorts.

I remember having to enforce these rules.  I remember feeling the awkwardness of it all but feeling justified in my policing.  After all, I was just following the rules.

God forgive me.

***

She came to me, understandably disturbed, and told me she had been tasked with telling another girl to dress more modestly.  Her skirts were too short.  This wasn't acceptable when engaged in ministry.  We talked about it at length, but there is no easy escape from the rules.  She had the conversation.

***

Dear Church,

I need to talk to you about something increasingly close to my heart.  I need to talk to you about modesty.  And I need you to listen, to truly listen.  

When we teach our daughters that modesty is about how one dresses, and when we then lay out specific rules about what is and isn't modest, and when we imply that dressing outside these bounds is sinful because it causes our brothers to stumble or sets a bad example or whatever, we are wrong.  Straight up, no if's, and's, or but's wrong.  

When we teach our daughters this, we teach our sons that it's acceptable to view a woman as an object of lust.  She's beautiful, but she shouldn't make her curves so obvious.  If only she'd hide herself a bit more fully, then she'd be a better Christian, a more worthy object of our affections.  Has she no shame? (God, forgive us for shaming our sisters and our daughters.)

I am entirely convinced that modesty is an attitude of the heart.  We have made it, however, into something else entirely.  We have made it a list of rules that defines the women in our midst as good or bad, turning women into little more than the object of men's desires.  What if we taught our daughters to value themselves as beloved by God?  What if we taught them that modesty isn't a list of do's and don't's, but a matter of living a life that points to Jesus in all things?

When you tell her she shouldn't wear such a short dress or low-cut shirt, and she has never once dressed with the intention of being an object of attention, you shame her.  You communicate to her that she is nothing but an object of lust, simply by virtue of who she is.  That she keeps men, by her very presence, from seeing Jesus.  May I be so bold as to suggest that maybe, just maybe, the problem lies in your heart rather than hers?

Here's the thing.  Every single woman who I know who has been shamed in this way is a beautiful woman of God inside and out.  These women embody modesty and humility and a servant's heart.  They are not immodest.  I repeat.  They are not immodest.

Men, I can't help your wandering, lustful eyes.  Women, I can't help your jealous eyes, I can't help your personal insecurities.  That my modesty (or lack thereof) would be judged by either of you is deeply offensive to me.

You know, the Bible says almost nothing in the way of lists of what not to wear or what to wear.  What it does talk about is the idea that what we wear should be a reflection of humility and submission to one another and to God.  And so I ask you this: Why are we playing modesty police all the time?  I suggest, as gently as is possible given my very real indignation on this topic, that the Church must reconsider the rules that we have created - these rules that lead to shame and guilt, these rules that teach women that every moment of every day they must be careful lest men lust after their bodies, these rules that teach women that their value is tied to their outward appearance.  We are so much better than that, my beloved Church.  So much better.

I have a request, Church, a plea for a reconsideration of everything we've preached and advocated for far too long, now.  Please stop creating rules intended to shame women.  Please stop viewing women as objects of sexual desire and our supposed immodesty as an affront to the God who made us.  Teach the Church to value modesty in a positive way.  Empower women to find our identity and value in Christ, not the approval of men.  Allow us to love our bodies as God intended, not hide them from a sense of shame and fear.

And, for the love of all that is good and holy, consider the heart of the "law" to which you so tightly cling.

Your sister,
Marilee

Saturday, June 8, 2013

the problem with anger

I.

I've learned over the course of my quarter century on this planet how to hold onto anger every now and then.  Usually it starts rather innocently, with someone slighting me or hurting me in some way; maybe they didn't even mean to do it.  I attempt to give them the benefit of the doubt, but anger sidles in nevertheless.  As time moves on, I find myself more and more committed to the path of anger.  And then suddenly I'm up to my neck in anger; it affects all of the relationships connected to the anger-filled one, making them strained and complicated on the best of days.

I need to let go.

II.

I learned early on to be angry at injustice.  The day Bill Clinton was re-elected I was two things.  I was angry.  And I was afraid.  The day Obama was first elected I was the same thing.  Angry and afraid.

Fear.  That thing which keeps us all bound, which serves as a constant reminder that life is not at all within our control.

I believe fear leads to anger.

I've been striving for several years now to keep fear out of my life, but in making the choice to not fear what I don't understand, I discovered that it's way too easy to pretend to not be afraid by being angry.  If I'm ranting and raving and hiding behind the pitch and volume of my words, maybe they won't see how afraid I am.

If I post smart looking links on my facebook wall, if I win the political argument, if I accuse someone of racism or sexism or whatever-ism, maybe they won't know.

But I know.

I need to let go.

III.

"Perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment." (1 John 4:18 NIV)

Those words haunt me with their simple beauty and truth.  They are the words I want to build my life around.

Unafraid.

Forgiving the slightest and the largest grievances.

Loving without fear.

Because I am perfectly loved.

Friday, June 7, 2013

a little good ol' fashioned stream of consciousness as I work through my problems

The following is something I don't typically do anymore, but I need to think some things out and I need a place to do so.  I work best through writing, so here goes:

I'm scared.

Truth be told, I'm terrified.

So much change is around the corner, and I'm not sure if I'm ready for it.  I'm not sure where I stand and I'm not sure where I should stand.  I feel utterly unprepared to deal with the dilemmas that lie ahead, much less be comfortable in my own skin.

I have walked down this path and now I find myself standing at a fork: will I be humbly bold in whatever God places in front of me, or will I revert to a former, more comfortable me?

My small group is splitting.  We're way too big, and it only makes sense to split.  I was for it.

And now it's happening, and I am heading into full-fledged panic mode.  I love each person there dearly and love hanging out with each of them.  The past year I have watched us grow and change and deepen in our relationships with God - I know I've grown.  And now with less than a stroke of a pen we're evaporating.  Reforming in small shells of what once was.  I know that this is necessary, but it doesn't make it any less difficult.

The impending split also reveals so much darkness in my soul.  There was a time a few months ago when I felt compelled to help lead our small group.  One thing led to another and I ended up sidelining myself.  I'm still not sure why I did it.  I mean, I know why I did it.  I was a mess.  I didn't know if what I believed was okay, and no one was stepping up to tell me it was okay to not know.  I felt alone and misunderstood and marginalized, in no place to lead with my insecurities weighing me down.

And let's be honest here for a second.  I'm a woman, and a woman with a not very strong voice and a lot of insecurities.  I'm a woman who grew up in situations where the guys were the spiritual leaders.  I never learned how to lead, or even how to talk, really.  I learned how to say the answer the pastor or teacher was looking for, and that was about it.  And now I find myself in a place where I feel compelled to add my voice and perspective to the conversation but I am not sure how to do that.  I never want to step on toes, I never want to offend.  I'm not particularly confident, and I'm not particularly confident that I have any answers.  I'm also fairly confident that I'm a terrible leader.

And yet, I believe God calls me to speak up.  Not to lead, not at all.  My gifting and my heart is not there, at least not now.  I do believe, however, that I need to stop being a pansy.  I need to embrace the insight God has given me and run with it.  Fling my arms wide open and accept myself.  Learn to let other people in.

I think that's the only way to really grow from this point.

God have mercy, I am a coward.

I see the truth, and I say nothing.  So much leads to this reaction, but most of all it is pride.  My life is saturated with pride, and I so rarely recognize it for what it is: destructive to the core.  Ultimately my pride causes me to alienate myself, and only pain results from that.  God forgive my prideful heart.  God forgive me for assuming no one will care about what You have revealed to me.  God forgive me for it all.

The sky's the limit, really.  Ultimately, all I want is to live faithfully, with God's heart beating in mine.  Ultimately, I want to become so much less, that His name will be made great in my weakness.  That's it, I guess.

I'm still afraid.

God is good, though, and He's accomplished some mighty things in my life.  I have no reason to think He'll do anything but the same as I take a leap of faith.

Tuesday, June 4, 2013

what i need you to know

Life hasn't been easy for you.  I can see it in the way you carry yourself, I can hear it in the way that you talk.  You're always slaying dragons, always fighting back the demons.  Life throws you punch after punch and you  are trapped in this nightmare that is your reality.  I see you attempt to silence the voices, I watch them conquer you.  I don't even know you, really, but the darkness that defines your world breaks my heart.  

I have known so many like you.  Some of us are better at hiding it than others, but what so obviously defines you lurks in the dark corners of all of our souls.  

I need you to know that I don't have any easy answers for you.  Life is so complicated and hard and painful and alienating, and I haven't lived through half of the things you have.  The darkness you face every day is present in all of us, but for you it's even darker, and I'm so sorry.

I need you to know that Jesus is enough.  But more than that, I need you to know that Jesus loves you.  I know that's so trite, so simplistic, but I need you to know it all the same.  Jesus loves you, not because you fight all the demons in his name, not because you say the right words, not because you believe the right things.  Jesus loves you, not because you have managed to silence the voices, not because you have it all together.  He just loves you.  He loves you without condition.

Without condition.

I need you to know that Jesus' love is life and freedom.  His love has the power to silence the voices, to fight the demons, to loosen the bonds that hold you back from truly living.  His love is light and safety and acceptance.  He loves you because He made you.  He loves you because you are precious to Him independent of anything that you do or try to be.

You are loved.

Life isn't ever going to be easy.  It's always a struggle, always painful.  Jesus loves you, but you'll forget it...over and over and over again.  And in those forgetful moments, life will be overwhelming and scary and hard.  But your forgetfulness won't change his love.

His love never changes, never ends, never gives up.