| | I probably mentioned this in my other post, but it's quite possibly worth mentioning again: for the love of all things, you should read The Things They Carried--Tim O' Brien
why you ask? Oh. Well. Because it's about the Vietnam war, and history is important. It shows us where we've been, and how to move beyond our circumstances, pitfalls, and craters. But also because O'Brien does an incredible job of writing the stories of Vietnam not like Platoon, but like a real story teller; including embarrassing, awkward, and truthful emotional reactions of the characters (who in themselves are developed well). This is not a collection of gory war stories. It's so much more I tell you!
Anyway. Enough with that plug.
Read this snippet:
To generalize about war is like generalizing about peace. Almost everything is true. Almost nothing is true. At its core, perhaps, war is just another name for death, and yet any soldier will tell you, if he tells the truth, that proximity to death brings with it a corresponding proximity to life. After a firefight, there is always the immense pleasure of aliveness. The trees are alive. The grass, the soil--everything. All around you things are purely living, and you among them, and the aliveness makes you tremble. You feel an intense, out-of-the-skin awareness of your living self, the human being in you want to be be and then become by the force of wanting it. In the midst of evil you want to b a good man. You want decency. You want justice and courtesy. You want justice and decency and human concord, things you never knew you wanted. There is a kind of largeness to it, a kind of godliness. Though it's odd, you're never more alive than when you're almost dead. You recognize what's valuable. Freshly, as if for the first time, you love what's best in yourself and in the world, all that might be lost. At the hour of dusk you sit at your foxhole and look out on a wide river turning pinkish red, and at the mountains beyond, and although in the morning you must cross the river and go into the mountains and do terrible things and maybe die, even so, you find yourself studying the fine colors in the river, you feel wonder and awe at the setting of the sun, and you are filled with a hard, aching love for how the world could be and always should be, and now is not. I've read these sentences over and over, letting them sooth me, resonating with many of the words, and mourning over the beauty of the world, and the possibilities for the world, how it could be, should be, and isn't right now.
Church gnaws at me right now. I visited a new Church to which I thought I could be involved in playing drum set for their worship team. Boy, that set was a beauty. The mix in the house was beautiful, and when I played the set with the brushes (metal brushes- not tooth brushes, or brooms. No worries.), it sounded gorgeous. I fell in love. I saw the music minister many times over the next several days at Starbucks where I steal internet from the neighboring hotel, and he remembered my name. I took note of that. We chatted about the vision for their church, I probed to see how "charismatic" was charismatic in Joplin, Missouri at his Church, and searched for a firm understanding of what they meant when they said they were an "Acts 29" Church. I wondered about their involvement in missions and in the community. I asked about programs, and their view of community as folks like me desire. It was an interesting conversation. I said I'd be seeing them Sunday morning.
One person looked at me when I entered the Church, to hand me a bulletin. I instantly started sweating, feeling like a spotlight had been shined on me, like the kid who ALWAYS come to class late and gets red-faced when everyone stares at him in the quiet class. I felt exposed, so to speak. I found the door to the Sanctuary and climbed into the back row of seats. To make myself feel better, I texted a friend and told her I felt fantastically uncomfortable and that a bar made me feel more at ease. I hoped she'd be able to talk on the phone so I wouldn't look so utterly alone. No luck. So I journaled instead. Worship lasted 45 minutes, and it lingered for a lonnnnng time. By the time the preacher (whom they call "teacher", and sunday mornings "meetings") got up, I was ready to scoot, but I decided I would listen for a little bit. He rambled, and I was not part of the club, and I knew it. And it sucked.
So I went outside and dialed my Mom. I saw a sliver of watermelon in the grass and kicked it onto the black pavement. I proceeded to draw several parallelograms until the pink flesh and green rind dehydrated, and I talked to my Mom about a myriad of things going on in my head. I didn't like that I felt so uncomfortable in a Church that I was sweating.
What is wrong with that picture? Now, I'm not trying to say The Church is horrible and needs to "step up", but it hurts my heart to think that a believer can feel out of place. I can't imagine someone who is curious coming to Church! By golly, we scare them all away because the Church is a big club.
And I'm frustrated.
So I'm not going to Church for a while.
You may say- "What a dope."
And I retort- "It is what it is right now."
So, there.
Press On.
Phil. 3:13-14
-Becca
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| | Posted 6/1/2009 4:20 PM - 86 Views - 4 eProps - 2 comments
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