I wrote in a previous entry that the journey of faith is in some ways short, and in some ways infinite.  I’d like to take a moment to explore that idea here.

Faith is simple.  You just do it.  You just let go, and believe.  You have faith.  You take the leap. Just like that, it is done.

Faith is also complicated and difficult, because we are human.  Doubts enter our minds, and our minds sometimes trick our hearts.  Our human brains are unbelievably powerful observers of information, perceivers of stimuli, and processors of pattern. They are working constantly to give us information about our surroundings, and bring us the understanding of those surroundings required to survive in a constantly dangerous world. Every day, we drive deadly, two-ton hunks of steel at speeds orders of magnitude faster than we could ever hope to move on our own.  We do this on freeways where 10,000 other humans are performing the same task, at the same speeds, many of whom are some measure of distracted, and our brains allow us to do this as though it was second nature. It is staggering to think about.

This observational, logical nature of our brains is a gift, to be sure, but in some ways it is also an interdictor, preventing us from realizing our total, true self. I have fallen prey to overestimating the limited facilities of my own brain, to be sure. My mind is one that values the scientific method, order, and empirical evidence. It has cast doubt upon the unseen. I believe this was one of the reasons why faith has been such a struggle. I trusted my limited human brain to tell me everything I needed to know about survival. Because I thought that understanding the world with my mind and soul were more or less mutually exclusive ideas, I never really considered that my empirical observations and logical understanding of the world might actually only constitute one portion of the whole picture that I needed to survive.

Empirical evidence and faith are not mutually exclusive ideas, and you can simultaneously trust your mind and your soul to guide you, because both of them are of the Lord.  And just because I trust in science to tell me about the observable universe does not mean that I cannot also trust my heart to tell me about the unseen truth behind the curtain, because one does not preclude the other.

I also trusted my mind to tell me when the time was right to believe in God. This was undoubtedly one of the reasons why it took me so long to understand what it truly meant to take a leap of faith. I’m coming to understand that faith is not necessarily about what my brain tells me. It’s about that for which my soul thirsts.  My brain can help me comprehend along the way, of course. There are lessons in the Book I need to digest in order to internalize.  There are lessons I will learn from observing the good deeds of others. There is knowledge to be sought. But coming home to the Lord means using my whole array of senses to make the leap of faith, so that I can move my soul from the dark rim of the canyon to the light.

So, in much the same way that we will never run out of questions to ask of science in a seemingly infinite universe, our souls will never complete a journey to faith.  Our souls are limited and flawed, and the Lord’s presence gives us an infinite space to explore and observe.  The journey to understanding God will never be complete.

But it is so simple in theory to begin the journey.  Open the book, open your heart, and take the leap.

I have chosen to jump.

Prayer of the morning:

Father above us, Father among us, Father in our hearts, this morning is a time for courage. I ask that you please give me new strength every day to take another step closer to you.

Why Christianity?

Today, American Christianity is perceived poorly, particularly among intellectual and scholastic communities.  A stigma permeates the word “Christianity” writ large, and I am partially guilty of accepting and perpetuating the stereotypes. Christians are stubborn. Christians refuse to accept scientific facts. Christians are inflexible and unyielding, and generally unwelcoming to outsiders and people of other faiths.  These stereotypes are not baseless, of course.  No stereotypes ever are. But I do not believe they are representative of Christianity ut totum.  The reputation is earned by a few vocal outliers, but must unfortunately be borne by the whole community. That is the very definition of stereotype.

As I mentioned, I have been guilty of painting the Church with broad strokes myself. In today’s political climate, it became easy to pass blame. The racism and misogyny associated with the alternative-right movement is not representative of the totality of Christians, and of course I knew that. But bitterness entered my heart and hardened it. I was cynical and arrogant. (Arrogance is a recurring theme here in this writing space, in case you haven’t noticed.)

I foolishly forgot that at its core, Christianity is astoundingly beautiful. Accept love without limitations or caveats? Yes. Love your neighbor as you would love thyself? Yes. Receive unconditional forgiveness for your flaws and failures? Of course. Have a charitable heart, and give of yourself for the sake of others? Treat others not as they have treated you, but as you would want to be treated? Welcome any neighbor into you arms and into your heart? It is intuitive, and it is wonderful.  It is also difficult, of course, and on this journey I’m certain that I’ll have to be reminded daily of what it means to be a welcoming soul.

I seek the warmth of the Lord’s embrace. I seek the acceptance of Christ the deliverer. I find it difficult to conceptualize in my mind, being loved and forgiven unconditionally by an invisible God, but I have faith that my soul will be more accommodating. For some time, my soul has felt like it is tightly bound, wound like a thin thread, in my chest. Perhaps a doctor would call it depression. Perhaps they would be right. I believe that if I open my soul to God I will find myself more open to the world.

Having been raised in and around the Christian Church, I also know that it is a welcoming community.  This is easy for me to say, of course, as a white, American male who grew up attending a Lutheran church in a predominantly Caucasian part of town. There are few places I cannot go. But I know that the best Christians would accept me regardless of my skin or gender or country, and I seek to be likewise unconditionally open-armed myself. I have always had trouble opening my heart to people. It has nothing to do with them, I don’t think, and everything to do with my own attitude.  I’ve known for some time that this needs to change, and I think of all the aforementioned traits, this one will be my greatest trial.

Once upon a time, I saw myself as a generous person. (Perhaps that is another example of arrogance. I have always needed an extra dose of humility.) I don’t remember when or why I became so selfish, but lately there has been precious little charity in my heart.  Christ teaches us that “For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also” (Matthew 6:21). I have rarely been so ashamed of myself as when I read that passage, because I knew that it was true.  I knew that my material possessions had taken over my life. I knew it before then, but to see my foolishness laid out so plainly stung, plain and simple.

The Golden Rule we all know from Luke 6:27-31 ends with “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”  It sounds so simple!  Doesn’t it?  In practice, though, it is easier to do things the other way around. When I treat people the way I’ve been treated, it just perpetuates anger and frustration, and begins a vicious cycle. I must be diligent to remember this lesson; I believe that it can perpetuate a cycle of joy and belonging.

None of these lessons are new to me–I learned them long ago, and forgot them. But even though I knew them in the past, I’m not certain that I practiced them, at least not consciously. Today, and every day forward, I must make a great effort to internalize them, and do so with humility. I must be disciplined, while still being open and loose.  I must learn the lessons not with my mind, but with my heart.

Prayer of the moment:

Father above us, Father among us, Father in our hearts, now is a time for understanding. Please grant me the wisdom to know the difference between a lesson I have learned with my mind, and one I have learned with my soul.

Attitude is greater than aptitude.

That platitude is simple to understand, intellectually. When dealing with matters of the heart and soul, it seems obvious that the emotional attitude, effort, and commitment we apply are more important assets than our intellectual capacity for learning and understanding.

In practice, applying that lesson is a tremendous, monumental task.

As someone that has always been pridefully self-reliant–and perhaps too clever for my own good–I find that it is difficult to admit that I cannot bear a burden on my own. In our culture, we suffer from a chasmic dichotomy. We are taught from a young age that we can do anything we desire with our lives, and that simple elbow grease and determination and a little know how can overcome any obstacle.  On the other side of the canyon is the wisdom that not only are we incapable of bearing the burden of the world by ourselves, but also the admission that we were not meant to carry that burden alone.

The first part of the previous sentence seems obvious during the most difficult times of our lives, or at least it feels that way to me. I have felt overwhelmed, and I have borne my burden poorly.  I have suffered setbacks, and I have sought refuge in trying to control my environment, thinking that order and control of as much of the madness as possible will put my heart at ease. Such order is not the answer. It also requires an admission of failure and weakness, which is another stigma in our American culture (particularly as a man). But the truth is that the second half of that above sentence is the key for me. In order to truly open my heart to Christ, I must admit to myself that I was not made to bear the yoke. I was made to walk by his side, so that he can bear the brunt of the burden for me, and he might shelter me from the sand and sun and storm.

I have behaved thus far in my life as though the key to my soul’s peace was insulating myself from chaos and disorder.  I feel now as though I have been very wrong.  Insulating myself from those things resulted only in isolating me from the world, not from my own problems. Even in the best, most perfect moments, our world is a bit of a mess. Chaos, disorder and hatred surround us, and it is impossible for me to overcome them on my own. I don’t have the strength of will for such a weight. Until now, I sought to separate myself from my peers by rising above my own weakness, but I believe now that those weaknesses are not my fault; they are not a flaw or a failure on my behalf. That is what it means to be human! Accepting Christ in my heart and soul is simply an admission that I am ready to have my burden lifted from my shoulders.

I’m not saying that that admission and acceptance will be easy; I am prideful and stubborn.  But I am saying that at least now I believe I understand the first level of what it will take to accept the help of the Lord.

(Second) Verse of the day: Psalm 55:22

Cast your cares on the Lord
    and he will sustain you;

Prayer:  Father above us, Father among us, Father in our hearts, now is a time for sharing. I ask you to share your unconditional love, and in return I will share my burden with you, for I know that you were meant to carry it for me.

When I was at the University, I sung in several choirs over the course of my time.  They weren’t part of my major, but I’d always loved to sing, and I’d likewise loved the sound of a big, four-plus part choir.  I would sometimes sing tenor, sometimes bass, depending on what was needed.  I was (am) not a particularly talented singer, but I practiced plenty, I listened well, and I have sufficiently good pitch.  One of the great parts of singing in a choir is that you don’t need anyone with much talent or power.  If you get 80-plus voices working together, you can fill an auditorium with harmonious song.  Thinking back on it in context of this blog, that was a powerful lesson on the value of community, and one I hadn’t even bothered to reflect on until now.

The reason I bring up that memory is several-fold.

During a walk today, I reflected back on a recent moment of learning regarding the Holy Spirit.  In my entire life, no one bothered to explain who or what the Spirit was with clarity, and I was astonished to hear someone put it so simply: the Holy Spirit is what fills us up with inspiration, and compels us to feel a sense of closeness to God.  It is the impetus, the driving force in our relationship with God.  Until I heard it put so plainly and eloquently, I’d never really had an understanding of what it meant–or perhaps I simply hadn’t sought an answer.  After all, growing up praying in a Lutheran church, I think I was repeating lines verboten than actually internalizing the prayers as lessons.

I can say definitively that I have felt the presence of the Holy Spirit on multiple occasions, one of which I’d like to talk about here in this space.  One semester, during the second half of my sophomore year, one of the songs chosen for us was a rendition of Psalm 96.  It reads (in English, by the NIV):

Sing to the Lord a new song;
  sing to the Lord, all the earth.
Sing to the Lord, praise his name;
  proclaim his salvation day after day.

and this version, in French, by Jan Sweelinck:

Chantez à Dieu, chanson nouvelle,
Chantez, ô terre universelle,
Chantez, et son Nom bénissez.
Et de jour en jour annoncez
Sa délivrance solennelle.

The song is appropriately uptempo, quick and light, with staccato beats and staggered melody lines.  It’s a beautiful melody, with rich harmonies, and it’s wondrous to hear. You can hear it below.

As someone that has taken this song on, I can tell you that it is trickier than it sounds, and also that this group is quite good, even if they do have a little trouble with their sibilants. That is neither here nor there.

The point, to me, is that during practice I could tell it was a wonderful song, and a poetic translation of the verse.  I can also tell you that during practice, even on full run-throughs, I did not feel compelled.

However, in front of an auditorium which sat slightly over 500, I can tell you that I got that chill during the resolved crescendo: “et son Nom bénissez.”  Despite the nerves, I was floored. That shiver ran through my body, and I was filled with . . . something. At the time, I simply chalked it up to performance adrenaline. Looking back upon it, knowing what I know now, I know what it was.

On rare occasions, I can still capture that feeling while listening to a sacred hymn.  Now that I know what I’m looking for, I’ll be more grateful for those moments.

Verse of the day:

Matthew 11:28-30 – “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in my heart, and you will find rest for your souls.  For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”

Prayer of the day:

Father above us, Father among us, Father in our hearts, today is a day of praise.  I ask that today you help bring peace and comfort to my burdened heart as it aches.

I was born into Christianity, I suppose.  My mother was Catholic, my father raised Lutheran.  I was baptized.  While there are differences between the two, in practice they are virtually indistinguishable when looking at the worldwide spectrum of Churches.  The structure of the mass/service, the acceptance of Holy Communion, the rigidity of posture. Sit ramrod-straight in a wooden pew, and keep your eyes and mind focused on the alter before you while a priest or pastor opens a sermon with a crowd-warming joke.  The prayers have that same ramrod-straight posture; the words are spoken in unison, and in ritual.  I took communion.

I did not really like Church.

I attended Mountain View Lutheran Church for many years.  Probably from the time I was around six or seven until I was perhaps fourteen, I would attend with my Grandparents, who are two of my favorite people to ever walk the earth.  Nana and Papa, I call them. Papa was the greatest friend I could ever ask for, and I suppose he was also a man of some faith. He’s gone now, and I think of him every day. Nana is still with us, but is too weak to attend these days.  As far as I know, the Church still remembers her in their prayers. She has been a member since they made their retirement move to Arizona from Palatine, Illinois in the summer of 1987.

Of course, there were aspects that I enjoyed. For a while, Papa worked at the Church, and I even worked there alongside him during two summers. It was mostly cleanup duty; I would vacuum, stack chairs, run pipe for the sprinkler systems, and other sorts of things along those lines. I also enjoyed the togetherness with my Grandparents, meeting their community of friends, and developing a personal relationship with the Church and with Pastors Lyle, Snyder, and Bartsch.

I do not know what Nana believes today, but I do know that while they were active in the Church and community, she and Papa attended Bible study every week. I went with them perhaps fifty times over the course of several years, and there is where I learned much of my foundational scripture.

Pastor Jim Bartsch taught those classes, and his wife Rilla Mae attended.  They were great friends to my Grandparents, and Pastor Jim played a pivotal role in helping me come of age regarding my spirituality. He was tall, perhaps six-foot-two, and his head was trimmed with a few wisps of white hair.  He had a nasal tenor voice, an unyieldingly kind countenance, and an ample gut. He was the first person of religious authority whose teachings made sense to me.  He spoke with clarity, with good humor, and with humility. He welcomed men and women of any age, and any faith, to study with him, and in the decade-plus that I knew him, he never once raised his voice.  I remember a Jewish couple that attended those studies for years.  Lyla was her name, and I’m ashamed to admit that I’m only fairly certain that his was Jerry. (Edit: It was Jerry! And her name was spelled Lila.)

That was my first real experience with a welcoming Church community.  It was half a lifetime ago, but I still remember their faces, their voices, and most of all I remember the salon-style (and I don’t mean hairstyles) discussions of faith.  It was a sharing of ideas, and a discussion of how the scriptures applied to our own lives.

When I started high-school, I attended Church less frequently, then later only sporadically, and then it became rare. I got a job that scheduled me on Sundays, and I used that as an excuse. The Pastors I had grown to know moved on to other callings, or retired, and I used that as an excuse.  The truth, as I admit it to myself now all these years later, is that I probably just didn’t want to go.

College began.  I attended Church a few times, and at a few different places.  Sometimes it was out of curiosity, sometimes out of obligation, and sometimes it was to be with friends. College went by, and I drifted further away from the Church.  It was easy.  Shockingly easy.

A couple years removed from college, I was having a bit of a personal crisis.  Out of despair, I sought refuge in a single prayer.  It was the first time I had prayed in years, and it was also perhaps the first time I had truly prayed.  I don’t really remember the words I spoke, but I remember the need of my heart. I was desperate for an answer to a question I didn’t understand. I begged for something I had no business asking for, and no right to expect.  It was the longest prayer I had ever said.

I have actually, honestly believed in God since the next day, when my answer to that prayer came, defying both my expectations and logic.  It could not have been a coincidence. My prayer was answered.

I think at the time, I considered prayer to be a last resort.  I was closed off to the idea that it could be a part of daily life, and I regret deeply that I have slipped back into that old routine.

I have been closed off to God, to the Word, to the community.  I have been stubborn, I have been embarrassed to be a believer, and I have been proud and elitist.  Today, I’m starting a journal about a journey back home–or perhaps to a home I have never found. It is time for me to approach my relationship with God anew, and with fresh vigor. There has been unrest in my heart, and I find it is time to seek peace. It is a journey that is in some ways short, and in some ways infinite. In the end, I hope I will find rest.

Prayer of today:  Father above us, Father among us, Father in our hearts, today is a day of great thanks-giving.  With gratitude, we ask that you be in our minds and hearts today, and help us to be mindful and present.  Amen.