Yesterday during an evening church session, the group was talking about unrealized potential, and trying to discuss how to help each other find ways to optimize that potential.

The message boiled down to two simple questions: what is holding us back from reaching our full potential? And also: what is keeping us from helping others realize the potential in themselves? The message was a good reminder that we often need each other to see our best qualities and gifts. I’ve said before that we are not designed to solve our problems alone, and I really believe that to be true.

Since I began my journey of faith, I’ve approached a select few people to share in my journey, and that has been a big step for me. Before, because I was prideful, I thought that I could handle all of my problems on my own. A little dose of humility has taught me that I don’t know what I don’t know, and that I need help from people who are more mature in their faith than myself.

I heard a phrase yesterday during the evening church session that stuck to my brain. Near the end of the message, my old friend Nate tossed out the words “breathing to death.” It was a throwaway line that he used for effect, and I get the impression that the people surrounding me had heard that phrase before. To me, though, it really wrapped up my feelings about my previous life. I was just going through the motions, and not really living. Every breath was just a tick of the clock, counting down to nothingness, and I was just biding time.

We read from Paul’s first epistle to the Corinthians, chapter one, which is a chapter that seems to come up a lot in my life. (I feel a great affinity for Paul; having been a sinner and blasphemer myself, and now being someone that writes about my newfound faith, I feel as though I have a lot in common with him.) This verse stood out to me: “Brothers and sisters, think of what you were when you were called. Not many of you were wise by human standards; not many were influential; not many were of noble birth . . . It is because of Him that you are in Christ Jesus, who has become for us wisdom from God—that is, our righteousness, holiness and redemption” (1 Corinthians 1:26,30).

When I think of what I was when I was called, I shudder to think of how far astray I had journeyed. I have always been a straight-edge type of guy; the drugs, excessive drinking, and promiscuous sex that are so pervasive in our culture have never held any appeal to me. My sins lie more in the way I have treated people, and the way I had forsaken God for other false idols.

I am truly grateful to have recognized that I cannot realize my potential alone, and I am even more grateful to have found people that are willing to help me along my way.

Most people know the ten commandments, or have at least heard of them.  Dictated by God himself in chapter twenty of the book of Exodus, they are, paraphrased and in order:

Put no other Gods or idols ahead of the one true God
Do not misuse the name of God
Remember the Sabbath and keep it holy
Honor your Father and Mother
Do not murder
Do not commit adultery
Do not steal
Do not bear false witness
Do not covet your neighbor’s house
Do not covet your neighbor’s wife

This week, two people reminded me of what Jesus said in the book of Matthew, Chapter 22. One of the “expert” Pharisees, determined to catch Christ in a mistake, asked Jesus which of the commandments was the greatest. Jesus replied with this: “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and all your soul and all your mind.’ This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second law is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments.” (Matthew 22: 37-40).

The first person to remind me of this was a Pastor, and a friend. We were discussing a question I had about how to find balance in my life. Since I first came to faith–I mean truly accepted Christ as my personal savior–I have had questions about how much of my former life and personality should remain. What aspects of that person’s life am I able to retain? Do I want to keep any of them?

Pastor Mark had read my post about baseball (and core values), and he brought up Paul’s letter to the Galatians to illustrate a point about how simple it is to keep this at the core of every aspect of my life. In chapter five of that letter, when prompted by bickering factions regarding which aspects of the Law to which they ought to adhere, Paul replies “You, my brothers and sisters, were called to be free . . . For the entire law is fulfilled in keeping this one command: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself'” (Galatians 5: 13-15).

As Pastor Mark points out, adhering to these two principles–Loving God first, and my fellows as myself–will allow me to grow into that balance organically. Allowing Christ to guide my soul to God with a heart of service will help me walk by the Spirit, and if I allow that core value to be my guide (putting Him first, next, and last) then the other behaviors about which I am uncertain will become more clear. The things that take me further from Him will slough off naturally, and the things that make my path to Him clearer will enliven my heart.

The second person to remind me of that lesson is a new friend. We are just getting to know each other within the context of faith, and when I prompted this person with a question about favorite guiding verses, my friend replied specifically with the above-mentioned passage. This person strives to make this core value the center of all decisions, and keep it at the center of her heart. I admire that greatly.

I knew, even in the moment, that it was no coincidence that in the same week two people had brought this “core” concept to my attention. I knew it from my own readings, but I also needed a reminder, I think. My faith is growing stronger every day, but I am still learning how to live with that faith as my center, and how to be guided by the Spirit, and not by my own mind.

Every day, in every single prayer that I say, I ask God to grant me only that which I need, and for Him to help me understand the difference between what I need and what I simply want. This week, he delivered that daily bread in the form of the aforementioned message.

I am not good at memorizing verse. Honestly, I’m not particularly good at memorizing things in general. I recall one class in college–I think it was English 381–where the professor gave qualifying students an alternative to taking the final. If we had a “B” grade or better, instead of taking the sit-down essay portion of the final, we could choose instead to memorize a Shakespearean sonnet. The most famous of these is eighteen, but I chose number sixty. (You can check them out here if you want to do so.) I struggled mightily to get through my sonnet. It was just fourteen lines; I had two weeks to memorize them, and I barely managed, and only then by some lenience from the professor.

The strange thing is that I have an excellent memory for people, places, directions, basketball statistics, conversations, and concepts. I’m also a fair writer with an exceptional command of the English Language. But I struggle to memorize strings of words.

Those circumstances make this all the more remarkable: I memorized this one little couplet of verse on the first read, and it has stuck to my mind like paste:

“Do not envy the violent
    or choose any of their ways.” Prov 3:31

It may not seem like much, but that one verse has enlightened my point of view and perspective in some ways. I think part of the reason it stuck to me so readily is because I was ready to hear it, and it is important to my understanding of my own heart.

The violence being discussed in this section of Proverbs is still present today, though not in my own life. They’re talking about raiders, rapists and pillagers who assault travelers. But though the violence in my own life–in all of our lives–is far less conspicuous, and far less dangerous, I think it is still foolish to assume it is innocuous to my soul.

Violence is found in movies and television, where death and destruction are nearly omnipresent. They are found in pop-culture, where songs promote guns and gun violence. It is found on the news, where we are constantly bombarded with stories of shootings and slaughter. It is found in sports, where we exalt players who intend to harm each other.

For some people, I think that those things are no problem whatsoever; they see it, they think about it, and they move on. For me, it’s been a little different in the past.

The problem with them in my own life is not the violence itself, but the glorification of violence, and the mental process of dwelling on it and letting it take over my mind. Watch too many Kung Fu movies, and I start thinking about learning Kung Fu so that I can do those things. I have never had a need for Kung Fu, and I am sure I never will. Hearing about home invasions and the second amendment might lead one to think about buying a firearm for protection. Statistically, I am more likely to hurt myself or someone I love with a gun than I am to actually use it for protection.

American Football is the meanest and most poignant example of this glorification. The players are absolutely trying to injure each other, and anyone who says otherwise isn’t watching the game. And we cheer them for it! I have cheered them for it! Last season, I realized that, and finally understood that it was hurting me to see those things. Now, having read the aforementioned verse, I understand why. I envied that violence, and my mind was at odds with my heart and soul. Knowing that, I’m not sure that I can ever watch that deliberate violence with fandom in my heart again. If not, it’s no great loss.

Ultimately, I am fortunate enough to live a life well-insulated from such violence, but that does not mean that I have not been guilty of glorifying it and dwelling on it.

With that verse in mind, I went and saw a movie I had been anticipating for a while. “Free Fire,” starring Brie Larson, Armie Hammer and Sharlto Copley, is a shoot-em-up thriller set in the 1970s. I watched, I enjoyed, and I did not glorify that violence. The spell was broken, because I understood that on no level was the movie a path for me, but just a source of entertainment–it is entirely a work of fiction.

Today, for Star Wars day, I think this simple verse is the perfect message:

“‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the LORD, ‘Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future'” (Jeremiah 29:11).

When we are with Christ, every day starts with a new hope, new love, new joy, and a new future. Today, and every day, I am most grateful for that.

Today, I’m going to write about two “manly” things: baseball and fire.

I’ve been thinking a lot over the last week about the concept of normalization. When I started this journey, my life was in a state of great unrest, and I was constantly under an extreme amount of stress. The entire fabric of my personality was figuratively coming apart at the seams.

When I first started flirting with the idea of accepting Christ in my life, I was around 19 years old. At the time, I was a big baseball fan. It’s an old game, and I found it somewhat romantic. Fifteen years ago, I had something of a revelation when I was looking at a baseball, and an analogy popped into my head that I used before to mentally wrap my head around my id as it relates to God. Even though my faith in God didn’t stick at the time, I still think about that analogy. I was a young fool, but I think there was something to the idea, so I’d like to revisit the analogy now.

A baseball is made up of individual pieces, stitched together to make it whole.

You could say that the core of the baseball is the most important part. The cork and rubber core is what really makes a baseball do its thing when it comes off the bat. In a person, I think this is analogous to our core beliefs. They are what motivates us, even subconsciously. When a ball is struck, the core flexes, and then the resilience of the cork and rubber pops it back into shape, and gives the ball it’s momentum. In much the same way, our core beliefs are our driving force, even when we are affected externally (hopefully not with a bat.)

You could say it’s the yarn bulk of a baseball that’s the most important. It gives the baseball its shape and heft and size, and transfers the momentum from the bat to the pliant core. In me, this is the traits and desires that fill out my personality. The good parts of me, and the bad. The part that makes me myself. Even in the most difficult of times, my personality remains more or less unchanged.

You might say that the most important part is the leather covering. It’s what covers the ball, and in this analogy it’s representative of the physical aspect of our bodies; the outward appearance. But it’s not really what keeps the whole thing together.

I would argue that the stitching is the most important part of the baseball. It’s what keeps the leather stitched together at the seams. It’s what keeps the yarn and cork and rubber inside, and it’s what keeps the ball from falling apart when adversity strikes. Even one tiny flaw in the stitching can result in complete destruction. The stitching in this analogy, of course, is faith. (The discussion about who made the ball can be left unsaid, I think.)

Faith is what holds us together when we are struck–when we are under duress–and that faith was what I was missing when I started coming apart at the seams. It is also what stitched me back together when I was left unraveled and in shambles.

But what I’ve been thinking about lately is what happens when we are all put together, and we’re just a whole person, sitting there. The ball can’t do anything by itself. It must be handled, thrown and struck to have a purpose.

My moods have more or less stabilized. I draw strength and focus and determination from a different place, but a lot of me is still in tact. I don’t think I’ll ever come apart that way again, because I’m ready for another strike. I am also ready for a new purpose.

When I first started this journey, my soul was on fire. I became driven towards a goal, and towards a purpose. Now, that bonfire has quieted some. I don’t still feel that desperate need, even though I am intent on pursuing God and Christ’s love. I have rebuilt my support system, reconnected with lost friends, and become a child of God. How, then, do I make sure that my fire doesn’t fade into dying embers?

I came across this verse when reading the other day. “Will you not revive us again, that your people may rejoice in you?” (Psalm 85:6). The word “revive” inspired me. When a fire is dying, it must be tended and rekindled. It requires maintenance, and that maintenance is something I’ve talked about here before. Fuel must be added, care must be taken, and bellows must be worked. This, I think, is what people mean when they talk about growing with God. They are constantly working at tending their fire. They are taking on ever bigger challenges, tackling ever-more-difficult concepts, and building still larger fires. Perhaps in this analogy, they are actually constructing a kiln to make their fire hotter, and to give it purpose.

Tonight, and every night, I will pray for revitalization as I tend my own fire.

I had planned to write about something else this morning, but it’ll have to wait.

The song in the below video and lyrics is off of Hannah Georgas self-titled debut album. I discovered this song, originally from 2012, a year ago this month, and I instantly fell in love with the sound. Georgas, a Canadian singer-songwriter from Vancouver, provides a haunting vocal. The melody itself builds from a throbbing synthetic pulse to an all-out guitar crunch, and the rawness of the instrumentation during the final lyrical thrust has a desperate edge. The song is sung and played with passion and energy, despite the relatively low tempo.  Give it a listen:

You are off kilter with me
Don’t you know it’s every other day of the week?
Your win my feat
These days I’m running to escape
Drenching my brain, soak in my mistakes
My mistakes

Is there any love left for me?

That dark sky yeah it’s so big
Isn’t anybody wondering? Isn’t anybody
Questioning what this all is?

As I age it sinks deeper in
This life is temporary, it’s all gonna end
This is all gonna end

It’s just a little love that I need

There’s an elephant in this room
And I’m white as a ghost
As a ghost

Show me the road, the road

All these moments become memories
I don’t wanna wake up one day thinking what did I miss
I fear my own fate
I don’t wanna wake up one day thinking
Where the hell have I been

I always assumed that this was a love song, written to a human about an interpersonal relationship. I guess I was never listening that closely (or perhaps I was just hearing what I expected instead of what was actually present). Despite having heard the song perhaps two hundred times–it really is one of my favorites–I never realized until this very morning that if read in a certain context, the song may actually be about her relationship with God.

I’ll start my reading by going over a few of the lyrics and how they relate to my own personal relationship with Him.

• The opening line about being off-kilter could refer to that relationship being out of sync or unrealized. It’s a line said by someone that knows he or she is missing something. This was me, as recently as two months ago.

• Late in the first stanza, she mentions “soaking in my mistakes.”  To me, this might refer to the humility that comes with understanding my own sins–my own pride–and how it has hampered my relationships with God and with the people closest to me.

• Taking a look at the second stanza reveals that this unfulfilled life, this “dark sky,” has her seeking an answer to the great question–the only question that matters: What is all this, and what does it mean? This is a question we all come face-to-face with at some point in our lives, and it usually happens when the skies are darkened.

• The bridge about this life being temporary is a critical junction. It is both the admission that our time on this earth is fleeting, and the admission that there is something else out there beyond what we can see. The line doesn’t say that life is temporary, it says that this life is temporary, implying that there is something more.

• The “elephant in this room” could absolutely be referring to the revelation that God is with me, and being “white as a ghost” sounds like an alternative poetic interpretation of my realization that there is something so much bigger out there, and that I have been thinking and feeling the wrong things for my entire life.

• “Show me the road” is an admission of humility, and a request for the light of His love. We have all asked for this.

• The two lines that really stick out to me are “Is there any love left for me?” and “It’s just a little love that I need.” These lines capture the desperation of someone that feels alone; it begs for just a little love, just a little light in the darkness. These lines are astoundingly beautiful poetry that capture what it’s like to feel small and in need.

I think it’s clear to me now, viewing this song in the context of my own faith, that Georgas meant it as a spiritual song when she wrote it. But, the second part of the lesson that re-thinking this song has taught me is that it doesn’t actually matter whether the song was written with this intent. I don’t know if Hannah Georgas is a Christian, or a Buddhist, or an Atheist, or anything in between, and that fact is irrelevant. I don’t know with any certainty that the song was meant to be interpreted in this light. The entire point of the exercise is that the context is there to me, and that is all that counts in this case. The song feels spiritual to me, and that is the important part.

Last night, I drove to what seemed like the middle of nowhere (east Mesa) for a Sunday-evening church service at Generations Church. I attended on the recommendation of a friend, and I’m glad I did. It seemed like a good community, and I will certainly check it out again. I know the lead Pastor a little bit, and I’ve known his wife for half of my life. They’re good people, and I trust them, which is half of the battle.

I want to write a bit about a part of the message that spoke to me personally.

The sermon hinged on the idea that we are better together than we are as individuals, and that the support we can lend each other–both in our faith and in our lives–is what makes a community strong and whole. This is obvious, of course. But it wasn’t always obvious to me. As I’ve written before, I used to think of myself as a man apart; I was prideful and self-reliant, and I knew that the only things I needed to get myself through a tough time were my own guile and guts.

Then something truly difficult came along, a personal loss, and I absolutely, with 100% certainty, could not survive it alone.

My struggle was partly because of the loss, but also partly because my support system of friends and family and faith was in a state of disrepair. My friends were scattered, and my relationships with them were casual and tentative. My family is very small, and we have never been big talkers. And my faith was . . . neglected at best, non-existent at worst.

I felt as though no one had my back, and I felt more alone than I have ever felt. I wasn’t even close to ready to tackle a real problem. It’s a cliche image, but I felt as though I was trapped at the bottom of a hole in the dark, and I had naught to do but shout into the darkness.

In the end, I came to understand that only through being honest and open with friends and family could I rebuild those relationships, and only through jumping into faith with both feet could I find what I needed from God. My entire life, I’ve given the bare minimum of myself to people; I committed and contributed the minimum required in order to maintain a relationship. When I say that I’ve been closed off to the world, that is what I mean. I shut the world out by giving little of myself, and keeping the rest bottled inside.

It was a struggle to both understand and apply that idea.

I do not excel at sharing of myself, particularly when I talk to people. I’m much better here, in a writing space, where I can spill thoughts to no one in particular. Even today, I am still hesitant to tell people what I’m thinking, or feeling, or needing. But I’m getting better.

I’m also getting better about being myself in the presence of God and within a church setting. It still makes me uncomfortable at times; even though I know I have nothing about which to be ashamed, I still feel the urge to put up shields. I still feel the shyness of a man who keeps his hands in his pockets and his head tilted towards the ground.

Pastor Ryan posed a question to the congregation last night: Are you ready for a fall? Several months ago, I would have thought the answer was yes, of course. Then I found out how wrong I was. I had to build a foundation–my support group–in the dark. It was probably the hardest thing I have ever done. But I did it, and I know what those relationships mean to me now. I cannot survive without them: my friends that I choose to make family, and my family that I choose to make friends, and my God most of all.

I will never really be a social butterfly. It’s not in my nature. But now I know who to trust, and how to trust them. When my next season of doubt and hardship come, I will be ready in a way I never understood before.

One of my very favorite spiritual hymns is the Shaker hymn that we now call “Simple Gifts.” The lyrics are plain, and they are plain for a reason: the song is about finding joy and pleasure in the simplicity of hard work, and in finding a relationship to God in the toil of uncomplicated life. Here are the lyrics, and a version of the song sung by Alison Krauss (whose voice is clear and rings out like an angel’s) accompanied by Yo-Yo Ma.

‘Tis the gift to be simple, ’tis the gift to be free,
‘Tis the gift to come down where you ought to be,
And when we find ourselves in the place just right,
‘Twill be in the valley of love and delight.

When true simplicity is gained,
To bow and to bend, we will not be ashamed,
To turn, turn, will be our delight,
Till by turning, turning we come round right

I’d like to take a moment to appreciate the breathtaking beauty of this version of the song. It is as perfect a rendition as I believe is possible. Firstly, in a song about simplicity, there are exactly two brilliantly balanced instruments: Krauss’ gentle voice, and an austere cello. It is the quintessence of simplicity, and the harmony of two sounds intertwine almost as if they are playing each other.

As for the lyrics, I find great comfort in them. Sometimes it feels as though my entire life is more complicated than it ought to be. Sometimes, in fact, it feels as though the entire world is more complicated than it should be. I occasionally think that the old way of doing things can be the best way, and that a simple way of living can be the most fulfilling. I am inspired by minimalist movements that seek to uncomplicate and disentangle our lives some unnecessary pursuits that often seem to get in the way of our joy: vitriolic social media, material possessions, consumerism, and unbalanced relationships are just a few examples.

They say that if you chase two rabbits, you won’t catch either. I don’t necessarily think that this means that we can’t pursue aspects of our lives but one at a time. In this context, what I think this means is that while we may have more than one pursuit at a time (e,g. careers, romance, God’s light) we must pursue each of them wholly and simply and with one mind and our best intentions. And, I think, our best results can only be had when we pursue them in the context of pursuing God’s will and understanding what His plan for us might mean.

In the book of Proverbs, it’s written that “A pretentious, showy life is an empty life; a plain and simple life is a full life . . . The lives of good people are brightly lit streets” (Proverbs 13:7,9). When I think of such a simple life, and simple pursuits, I can feel the stress which weighs down my shoulders slough off.

I can feel clear, and light, and free of expectations.

Paul writes in the epistle of Philippians: “And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus” (Philippians 4:7). Often, we expect dualities in our emotions that prove to be false. When we are young, we think that the antithesis of Love is Hate, but as we grow older I think we find that is untrue. I learned long ago that the opposite of love is not hate, but is instead apathy. In much the same way, where a child might think that the opposite of anger might be happiness or joy, I now know that it is actually peace.

I’ve written before about anger, but yesterday was a struggle for me, so I want to revisit the subject in the hope that I might come to understand it and conquer its power over me.

I think anger and frustration are the greatest source of darkness in my heart. They are demons that I battle every day. On a long walk last night, I found myself actively thinking about those feelings, and what they mean to me, and why they rule my consciousness from time to time.

The frustration is easy to explain, I think: it comes from expectations. I expect things to go a certain way, or fit a certain way, or happen in a certain order. I expect things from people, and from my job. When things don’t shake out the way I expect, frustration can rear its head.

The question, then, is where do the expectations come from? Do I feel entitled to those things? That the world owes me this simply by virtue of my own existence? Not consciously, I don’t think. Is it an issue of control? Perhaps that’s part of it. When happenstance and chance collude to subvert my expectations, I am often guilty of being frustrated that I couldn’t control the circumstances. I feel as though things are happening to me, and I am simply a subject to the whims of the world; I am without agency, and that can be frustrating.

What I really think it might come down to, though, is Pride (yet again). On some level, I think that because I behave with temperance and justice, or think in terms of kindness and gentleness and gratitude and charity, that those things make me worthy. I think that on a subconscious level, I believe that I deserve to have things go my way. I’ve thought (and worried) before that I am incapable of a relationship that does not function on a transactional level. Said differently, I have wondered if I am capable of giving without expectation of a return on investment. I’m not talking about altruism in this case–that’s different to a degree. What I’m thinking about now is something more akin to the concept of Karma. I don’t consciously expect the world to treat me in kind, but I think part of my unconscious mind might.

But then where does my anger come from? It is partly an extension of that frustration. When that festers and swells in my heart, I give it more power than it ought to have. Like an infected wound, the problem is thereby exacerbated if I leave it untended and untreated.

But I think there is another allure to anger for me. It is easy. It is fast. It is powerful. In a world where I often feel as though I have little agency, it can make me feel as though I have control over my own vulnerabilities. In this way, it is a shield. When I allow myself to feel a deep-seated anger, it can override all the other emotions I’m feeling. Pain and betrayal and insecurity and sadness are easily cast aside in its tremendous wake. But, the hangover is heartbreaking, because I know that anger is not what I want to feel. I also know that it doesn’t actually solve any of those problems it displaced. It just helped me procrastinate for a few moments or hours or days.

The book of James, which I’ve quoted several times before, says “Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry” (James 1:19). Originally, I thought that the context of that verse was only in relation to our fellows on this earth. I should pay special attention when I listen to them and put myself in their shoes, and that act of listening and empathy will connect me to them in a way that anger could not. That is certainly true, but now I wonder if I missed something even more important.

Perhaps part of being quick to listen also means to be quick to listen to Him. To allow Christ into my heart, and listen to what his teachings tell me about myself. To allow his path to fill my soul, and quell my anger. I need to allow myself to feel that vulnerability, and allow Him to heal my heart. Procrastination will only prolong that suffering.

I’m trying to finish up C.S. Lewis’ “Mere Christianity,” and last night I read a chapter geared towards explaining why we must study theology. The “science” of Christianity, he says, not only deepens our knowledge of God, but also paints a metaphorical map of what we must do about it.

One of the stories he relays in this chapter is of an old Air Force officer who, upon hearing Lewis give a talk about theology, protested and said that “I’ve no use for all that
stuff. But, mind you, I’m a religious man too. I know there’s a God. I’ve felt Him: out alone in the desert at night: the tremendous mystery. And that’s just why I don’t believe all your neat little dogmas and formulas about Him. To anyone who’s met the real thing they all seem so petty and pedantic and unreal!”

I’ve relayed, and felt, similar things in my life. I’ve had moments where I’ve felt God’s presence in a song, or through an interpersonal connection, or in a quiet breath in nature, or even in a time of great need. I know God was there because I felt it, and for the longest time I thought that was enough. I thought that was all I needed to know, and so I put those moments aside in my mind and went about my day, forgetting about that pursuit.

For the past six weeks, though, I have been pursuing the other half of the equation. I felt then that my moments of communion were insufficient, and that in order to make God a part of my life and accept Christ in my heart, I needed to do with Christianity what I have done with all the other great pursuits of my life: learn everything there is to know until I’m satisfied that I know the map/the path/the way, and can make it to my desired destination.

Remarkably, Lewis relayed almost the same analogy early in part four, entitled “Beyond Personality.” He says that while experiences of God can absolutely be real, they are not enough to understand the totality of what is laid before us.

“Now in a sense I quite agreed with that man. I think he had probably had a real experience of God in the desert. And when he turned from that experience to the Christian creeds, I think he really was turning from something real to something less real. In the same way, if a man has once looked at the Atlantic from the beach, and then goes and looks at a map of the Atlantic, he also will be turning from something real to something less real: turning from real waves to a bit of coloured paper . . . The map is admittedly only coloured paper, but there are two things you have to remember about it. In the first place, it is based on what hundreds and thousands of people have found out by sailing the real Atlantic. In that way it has behind it masses of experience just as real as the one you could have from the beach; only, while yours would be a single isolated glimpse, the map fits all those different experiences together.”

He goes on to explain that theology is like that map, and that through it we can learn the path, because that map distills the knowledge of many who have walked that path before us. Furthermore, in the ocean analogy, it would not be safe to go to sea without a map, because we would be lost in infinity.

As it relates directly to my own life, I feel as though I am only beginning to understand the outlines of the map. Within that analogy, in order to understand a map, one must also have a good compass and a proper bearing. That is where I think those experiences, those moments of communion with God, come into play. In the real world, I am gifted with a good sense of direction. By experience and intuition, I know which way points north, so I also know which direction I’m headed. In terms of my spirituality, I think those experiences of God will help guide me in the direction of Him, if only by feel at first.

In the first epistle to Timothy, Paul writes about “God our Savior, who wants all people to be saved and to come to a knowledge of the truth” (1 Timothy 2:3-4). The word conveyed is not “experience” of the truth, or even “understanding” of the truth, but “knowledge.” Over and over again in the gospels, people were astonished or amazed at Jesus’ knowledge of the teachings, even at his young age. Of course, both that knowledge and the experience truly matter, because without both, I would eventually get lost.