I was asked last week to play for chapel. It’s been fun to be involved in leading the singing during our chapel sessions; I haven’t done so in a long time. The lady who was going to be speaking had chosen two songs she wanted to have played. She thought one of the songs, Cry to Jesus (Chris Rice), wasn’t well-known. When I said I knew it, another lady said something to the effect of ‘praise God,’ thinking it was his special providence that I knew this song.
Now the question is, had the song been ‘Amazing Grace’ or ‘Jesus Loves Me’ would she have said ‘praise God’ as though it were his special care that had arranged for me to know the song? No, probably not. Everyone knows those songs, right?
The fact of the matter is, almost everyone I spoke to later knew the song. Most of the guitar-players she could have asked to play would have known the song. Her perception led her to believe it was rare for people to know the song, therefore my knowing it was God’s doing. The truth is, she would have had the same answer with probably 80% of the people she’d have asked.
Another thing. We usually don’t ask God for healing when we’ve got a headache. We take a pill to solve the problem. But what if we have cancer? We don’t usually pray for God’s protection when we go for a drive, but we may do so if the weather’s nasty. We don’t often pray to God for guidance when we choose between milk and orange juice for breakfast, but if it’s a career switch, or a relationship decision, we do our best to discern God’s will.
All of these circumstances are on a continuum. At what point do we ‘decide’ to involve God? At what point do we attribute the events which have occurred (e.g. arriving safely at our destination after driving through a blizzard, being cured of cancer after chemotherapy) to his doing?
I don’t think we understand God very well.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
The Power of Words
“You’re on the road to Damascus.” “I see you beating on a tree. You’re beating on it so hard that bark is falling off all around you.”
Words have power. This is especially true when we say something to someone about themselves. Many/most people are fragile, often in the area of identity. Who am I? Why am I here? Am I important? Do I matter? This may be a modern western phenomenon, or it may not. That’s another discussion.
I had a guy come up to me last week and say the words mentioned above in quotations, along with more detail I will not share. He believed these words came from God. The latter he called a ‘vision.’ How am I to take such a message? How much weight should I give it?
Our society tells us that how we think of ourselves influences how we act. There is truth to this statement, though how far it extends may be debated. If I believe I’m a no-good scumbag, I’ll likely act like one in the way I speak, my personal hygiene, my sense of responsibility. If I believe I’m unlikable, that no one wants to be friends with me, I’ll probably respond to people out of that belief both in the way I act and in the way I understand their words. If I think myself highly amusing, I’ll likely be constantly trying to convince others that this is true of me.
If we combine these two ideas - that words have immense power and that our sense of self influences our behavior (dare I say, our very personhood?) - we should recognize the immense influence we have over people.
A personal anecdote. My mom has insisted that I write well. In the past I tended to disagree or shrug off the compliment. Being the persistent type, she has often made such statements over the years, and I’ve gradually begun to believe it. You, reader, can feel free to disagree. My point is that because she’s kept saying it again and again I’ve gradually accepted that it is true.
I tend to be blunt sometimes. But I’ve recognized that a straightforward statement of the truth is often unhelpful. What I say about a person to their face may be true. It’s likely they’ll internalize it, believing it to be true. Even if they don’t strictly ‘believe’ what you said, it’ll probably still influence them. If what you’ve said is negative, this is bad news. Negativity has a way of sticking around and building on itself. It’s an erosive process. I think we’re in the business of building godly men and women, not tearing them down. I think.
If how I started this and how I ended it seem to be focused on slightly different matters, it’s only because I started it yesterday and forgot exactly where I was going. Sounds a lot like life…
Words have power. This is especially true when we say something to someone about themselves. Many/most people are fragile, often in the area of identity. Who am I? Why am I here? Am I important? Do I matter? This may be a modern western phenomenon, or it may not. That’s another discussion.
I had a guy come up to me last week and say the words mentioned above in quotations, along with more detail I will not share. He believed these words came from God. The latter he called a ‘vision.’ How am I to take such a message? How much weight should I give it?
Our society tells us that how we think of ourselves influences how we act. There is truth to this statement, though how far it extends may be debated. If I believe I’m a no-good scumbag, I’ll likely act like one in the way I speak, my personal hygiene, my sense of responsibility. If I believe I’m unlikable, that no one wants to be friends with me, I’ll probably respond to people out of that belief both in the way I act and in the way I understand their words. If I think myself highly amusing, I’ll likely be constantly trying to convince others that this is true of me.
If we combine these two ideas - that words have immense power and that our sense of self influences our behavior (dare I say, our very personhood?) - we should recognize the immense influence we have over people.
A personal anecdote. My mom has insisted that I write well. In the past I tended to disagree or shrug off the compliment. Being the persistent type, she has often made such statements over the years, and I’ve gradually begun to believe it. You, reader, can feel free to disagree. My point is that because she’s kept saying it again and again I’ve gradually accepted that it is true.
I tend to be blunt sometimes. But I’ve recognized that a straightforward statement of the truth is often unhelpful. What I say about a person to their face may be true. It’s likely they’ll internalize it, believing it to be true. Even if they don’t strictly ‘believe’ what you said, it’ll probably still influence them. If what you’ve said is negative, this is bad news. Negativity has a way of sticking around and building on itself. It’s an erosive process. I think we’re in the business of building godly men and women, not tearing them down. I think.
If how I started this and how I ended it seem to be focused on slightly different matters, it’s only because I started it yesterday and forgot exactly where I was going. Sounds a lot like life…
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Too bright - can't open your eyes. Too dark - you can't see.
It is easier to die for a cause than to truly live for it.
Silence causes uncertainty.
Losing a friend is being set adrift.
Better how than what.
Darkness is contagious.
Better to risk and be known, or to fade away in quiet anonymity?
Truth is dangerous.
Better to be deceived and content, or aware and afraid?
Explain, or leave the wondering unanswered?
Silence causes uncertainty.
Losing a friend is being set adrift.
Better how than what.
Darkness is contagious.
Better to risk and be known, or to fade away in quiet anonymity?
Truth is dangerous.
Better to be deceived and content, or aware and afraid?
Explain, or leave the wondering unanswered?
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
To Be the Best
My youngest bro is way good at airsoft. I was reminded of this several days ago when he (9 years younger than me) repeatedly hit my all over my head and face or on my hands, the only things sticking out beyond whatever cover I was hiding behind.
Honestly, my first reaction is anger, partly because of the brief pain, mostly because of disappointment. Then sadness, for I realize my anger is a result of feeling less-than-the-best.
Success is addicting. I often don't care that much about winning a game of ultimate or soccer, but I do care strongly about playing well. Of course, I define for myself what 'playing well' means by comparing it to my past performance and the performance of those around me. If I do poorly I usually leave depressed and frustrated.
Valuing excellence is ok. Trying hard is important. But ought I to be disappointed or angry at myself if I have done my best, even if my best isn't all that great? No.
As I grow older I'm realizing I'm not going to be wonderful at everything I try. Believe it or not, I used to think that I could be amazing at just about anything I tried (with the exception of things like ballet or golf, because of course those are sissy sports ; ) I'm becoming aware that I will not be that great at everything I do, and that is ok. If someone gets the ball or Frisbee despite my amazing defense, I'm no less of a person. If my younger brother makes freak shot after freak shot and I get welts on my face and hands, despite the fact that I'm a good shot and just took a handgun course (!), it's all right. I just have to remember not to get in a real-life shootout with him.
Thanks Joe Cool for creating a learning environment for me. And for the welts.
Honestly, my first reaction is anger, partly because of the brief pain, mostly because of disappointment. Then sadness, for I realize my anger is a result of feeling less-than-the-best.
Success is addicting. I often don't care that much about winning a game of ultimate or soccer, but I do care strongly about playing well. Of course, I define for myself what 'playing well' means by comparing it to my past performance and the performance of those around me. If I do poorly I usually leave depressed and frustrated.
Valuing excellence is ok. Trying hard is important. But ought I to be disappointed or angry at myself if I have done my best, even if my best isn't all that great? No.
As I grow older I'm realizing I'm not going to be wonderful at everything I try. Believe it or not, I used to think that I could be amazing at just about anything I tried (with the exception of things like ballet or golf, because of course those are sissy sports ; ) I'm becoming aware that I will not be that great at everything I do, and that is ok. If someone gets the ball or Frisbee despite my amazing defense, I'm no less of a person. If my younger brother makes freak shot after freak shot and I get welts on my face and hands, despite the fact that I'm a good shot and just took a handgun course (!), it's all right. I just have to remember not to get in a real-life shootout with him.
Thanks Joe Cool for creating a learning environment for me. And for the welts.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Fear
I’ve realized these topic-oriented posts are not so much about ‘teaching’ or ‘telling,’ but simply a debrief of an experience or a lesson learned. I’m ok with that.
I took my brothers kayaking this past week. One had been through eight days of training a year and a half before, the other had never been. It was interesting for me to watch their responses.
Cold water does something to you. Warm water is different. When it’s calm it can be comforting, friendly. Truly cold water is always a shock, and it can wear you down very rapidly. Experiencing that cold water while swimming a rapid generates a strong response.
There is a difference between knowing information and being sure, somewhere deep inside yourself, that something is true because you’ve experienced it. That’s part of what experiential education is all about. In the context of kayaking, the information you’ve been told (or assumed) is that your PFD will keep you afloat, that the wave train is the best place to have to swim because it’s deepest, and that the whitewater position is better than thrashing about wildly, as is natural. You’ve also been told kayaking is fairly safe, with few deaths compared to some other ‘extreme’ sports. Does all of this information cause the average first-time (or second or third-time) boater to be any less afraid when they’ve just exited their boat and are swimming cold, roiling water? No.
This is obvious from the looks on the faces of the many people I’ve seen who come to the surface for that first gasp of air after wet-exiting. If I could have taken snapshots of all the faces I’ve seen with that expression, I’d probably hide the album somewhere deep in a closet, because honestly, that expression is not pretty. Later we laugh about these experiences, but our laughter is often empty and weak, for what we faced for those seconds is terrifying.
Why is it that we could state that the likelihood of drowning is almost nil, yet for those seconds we may be certain we are about to die? Are we afraid of death in that instant? No, I think we are afraid of the cold, the dark, the distance between us and the air above the surface, the loss of control. Being underwater is not conducive to life. We do not often put ourselves in places where, if we do nothing, we will die. Being underwater is one of those places. To do nothing is to die. Our bodies know this, our brain is screaming it at us.
And so we act. We wildly reach for the surface and gasp in that breath of air. After the second and third breath we begin to believe that maybe things are going to turn out ok, and the terror begins to slip away. The blackness that had briefly overshadowed our mind (or was it simply that we are thinking of so many things that we can’t concentrate on any one?) lifts, letting us look around, beyond the waves, beyond the fear. We swim towards shore. We shiver, we laugh with our friends, grateful to have escaped.
Then we get back in the boat and do it all again. Even though the haunted look in our eyes is still there.
I took my brothers kayaking this past week. One had been through eight days of training a year and a half before, the other had never been. It was interesting for me to watch their responses.
Cold water does something to you. Warm water is different. When it’s calm it can be comforting, friendly. Truly cold water is always a shock, and it can wear you down very rapidly. Experiencing that cold water while swimming a rapid generates a strong response.
There is a difference between knowing information and being sure, somewhere deep inside yourself, that something is true because you’ve experienced it. That’s part of what experiential education is all about. In the context of kayaking, the information you’ve been told (or assumed) is that your PFD will keep you afloat, that the wave train is the best place to have to swim because it’s deepest, and that the whitewater position is better than thrashing about wildly, as is natural. You’ve also been told kayaking is fairly safe, with few deaths compared to some other ‘extreme’ sports. Does all of this information cause the average first-time (or second or third-time) boater to be any less afraid when they’ve just exited their boat and are swimming cold, roiling water? No.
This is obvious from the looks on the faces of the many people I’ve seen who come to the surface for that first gasp of air after wet-exiting. If I could have taken snapshots of all the faces I’ve seen with that expression, I’d probably hide the album somewhere deep in a closet, because honestly, that expression is not pretty. Later we laugh about these experiences, but our laughter is often empty and weak, for what we faced for those seconds is terrifying.
Why is it that we could state that the likelihood of drowning is almost nil, yet for those seconds we may be certain we are about to die? Are we afraid of death in that instant? No, I think we are afraid of the cold, the dark, the distance between us and the air above the surface, the loss of control. Being underwater is not conducive to life. We do not often put ourselves in places where, if we do nothing, we will die. Being underwater is one of those places. To do nothing is to die. Our bodies know this, our brain is screaming it at us.
And so we act. We wildly reach for the surface and gasp in that breath of air. After the second and third breath we begin to believe that maybe things are going to turn out ok, and the terror begins to slip away. The blackness that had briefly overshadowed our mind (or was it simply that we are thinking of so many things that we can’t concentrate on any one?) lifts, letting us look around, beyond the waves, beyond the fear. We swim towards shore. We shiver, we laugh with our friends, grateful to have escaped.
Then we get back in the boat and do it all again. Even though the haunted look in our eyes is still there.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Key Facts
I don't usually lose things. This is probably due to a few truths about me. One, I don't have much stuff. Two, because I don't have all that much stuff, I don't have many extra items which I don't frequently use, therefore I don't frequently lose things.
Friday I needed to get into my car for something. Hmm, my key isn't in my pocket. I wonder if I left it in my room. Nope. Maybe it's in another pair of pants. No, not there either.
So I start thinking back on the last time I'd had it. That Wednesday we'd gone over to Luke and Andrea's for pizza and a movie, and I'd grabbed my glasses from my car. My glasses ended up being entirely unnecessary, because the Underhills have a big old TV, but getting into my car then had been the last time I'd used my keys. I'd then run across the snow to the office, where people were waiting on me. At the Underhills I reclined on the floor during the movie. (I use the word 'reclined,' honestly, because I don't remember if it's layed, or lay, or lied, or...). The pants I was wearing have shallow pockets, so my keys could easily have fallen out. The next time I saw Andrea I asked if she'd keep a lookout for it.
The following few days I watched the ground whenever I went from the parking lot to the lodge. The snow was melting, definitely a bonus in my search for my keys. Andrea said she hadn't found the key.
Yesterday I got tired of missing it and decided it was time to go through my stuff very thoroughly. I started with my little dresser, organizing it in the process, but not finding my key. I shook out my sheets and blankets in case it was somehow mixed up in them. I double-checked the box where I'd kept it for the few days since I'd arrived. Then I turned to my closet to begin going through my pants and jackets.
If you've made it this far in this little epic, congratulations. Your efforts are about to be rewarded. Because I suddenly had this non-memory, not a light blinking on or anything like that, but almost an instinct. I saw my hand moving towards the little undercling-shaped slot on the shelf where my hangers hooked. Reaching my fingers in there I felt my keys. It all came back.
Our little trailer isn't locked. I'd kept my key in a little box on my dresser along with my hats and gloves, but thought that would be a little obvious if anyone came up while we were up on the hill for a day or something. So I decided to drop it into the slot where the hangers hook on the underside of the shelf in my closet. I remembered that I'd dropped them in there, then been unable to get them back out. Growing frustrating I'd decided to do something else and work on it later. I completely forgot about it.
Amazing, the mind. In its abilities, and so often, at least in my case, its disabilities. At least this story has a happy ending, right?
Friday I needed to get into my car for something. Hmm, my key isn't in my pocket. I wonder if I left it in my room. Nope. Maybe it's in another pair of pants. No, not there either.
So I start thinking back on the last time I'd had it. That Wednesday we'd gone over to Luke and Andrea's for pizza and a movie, and I'd grabbed my glasses from my car. My glasses ended up being entirely unnecessary, because the Underhills have a big old TV, but getting into my car then had been the last time I'd used my keys. I'd then run across the snow to the office, where people were waiting on me. At the Underhills I reclined on the floor during the movie. (I use the word 'reclined,' honestly, because I don't remember if it's layed, or lay, or lied, or...). The pants I was wearing have shallow pockets, so my keys could easily have fallen out. The next time I saw Andrea I asked if she'd keep a lookout for it.
The following few days I watched the ground whenever I went from the parking lot to the lodge. The snow was melting, definitely a bonus in my search for my keys. Andrea said she hadn't found the key.
Yesterday I got tired of missing it and decided it was time to go through my stuff very thoroughly. I started with my little dresser, organizing it in the process, but not finding my key. I shook out my sheets and blankets in case it was somehow mixed up in them. I double-checked the box where I'd kept it for the few days since I'd arrived. Then I turned to my closet to begin going through my pants and jackets.
If you've made it this far in this little epic, congratulations. Your efforts are about to be rewarded. Because I suddenly had this non-memory, not a light blinking on or anything like that, but almost an instinct. I saw my hand moving towards the little undercling-shaped slot on the shelf where my hangers hooked. Reaching my fingers in there I felt my keys. It all came back.
Our little trailer isn't locked. I'd kept my key in a little box on my dresser along with my hats and gloves, but thought that would be a little obvious if anyone came up while we were up on the hill for a day or something. So I decided to drop it into the slot where the hangers hook on the underside of the shelf in my closet. I remembered that I'd dropped them in there, then been unable to get them back out. Growing frustrating I'd decided to do something else and work on it later. I completely forgot about it.
Amazing, the mind. In its abilities, and so often, at least in my case, its disabilities. At least this story has a happy ending, right?
Those Yummy Round Things
I've realized over the past week my enormous negligence in a particular matter. Unfortunately, I am fairly certain that no amount of too-late appreciation will make up for my failure, but one can try.
So I know this person who makes these round things. They are generally tanish in color, with darker outcroppings scattered here and there. You're supposed to eat them, and any common-sense person who's ever had the privilege of doing so knows it is an experience worth remembering and looking forward to.
This person I know is a good cook, particularly when it comes to making sweet and fattening things. I was generously given two containers packed with these yummy round things for my NC-MT journey. I didn't eat many on my way, but discovered my mistake upon my arrival. All of the round things were excellent, but some had attained the highest possible state known to cookydom, nearing perfection in every way. They were not overbaked, the most important qualification. The proportion of chocolate chips to cookie was perfect, a delicate balance skillfully attained. Nor were they sickiningly sweet, so that you'd have to stop after only three or four. No, you can just keep on eating, and eating...
Unfortunately, the containers of cookies sit near my bed, and when I'm reading in the evenings they call to me, and more find their way into my stomach than is good for me. But it's worth it, believe me. 'Anything for the cookie.'
Did I mention that the aforementioned person is my wonderful sister?
So I know this person who makes these round things. They are generally tanish in color, with darker outcroppings scattered here and there. You're supposed to eat them, and any common-sense person who's ever had the privilege of doing so knows it is an experience worth remembering and looking forward to.
This person I know is a good cook, particularly when it comes to making sweet and fattening things. I was generously given two containers packed with these yummy round things for my NC-MT journey. I didn't eat many on my way, but discovered my mistake upon my arrival. All of the round things were excellent, but some had attained the highest possible state known to cookydom, nearing perfection in every way. They were not overbaked, the most important qualification. The proportion of chocolate chips to cookie was perfect, a delicate balance skillfully attained. Nor were they sickiningly sweet, so that you'd have to stop after only three or four. No, you can just keep on eating, and eating...
Unfortunately, the containers of cookies sit near my bed, and when I'm reading in the evenings they call to me, and more find their way into my stomach than is good for me. But it's worth it, believe me. 'Anything for the cookie.'
Did I mention that the aforementioned person is my wonderful sister?
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