Was going through some of the stuff I've written recently, and realized that some of it was meant to be posted here. Ironically, I've posted less since acquiring the internet than I did when I had to go out of my way to post... probably a message in there somewhere. Like in everything. : ) Even pizza.

so here's an archive for fun's sake. Sure it's a little sarcastic, but maybe it'll make someone think (by which I mean mostly me, since I'm not really convinced anyone else is likely to see it... lol)

Hey, what's that? You've been starving your whole life? Yeah, now that you mention it, you do look a little stick-thin and horribly malnourished. Tell you what, here's a pizza. Thick and hot and delicious.
Yeah, isn't it awesome? I bet now, You want to eat it all the time. Just like me.
Well, in that case, you should come with me to this place I go to. Someone will talk about pizza for a while, and we'll read a couple of pizza recipes, and sing songs about how awesome pizza is. And then we'll go out for lunch.
No, not for pizza, that'd be crazy. We're all a little pizza'd out by then, we'll probably just get a burger.
Besides, I can have pizza whenever I want. Got a whole freezer full of frozen pizzas, pizza pops, all that good stuff. It'll be there if I need it.
What do you mean that's not what pizza's all about? It's called pizza, isn't it?
Who made you the authority on pizza, anyway? You've only had it once. Bet you don't even know what kind is your favorite yet. I mean, do you like Hawaiian, Greek, Peperoni, All meat, All dressed?
What do you mean you just like pizza? What kind of crap is that?
Look, I run a weekly study for Peperoni Lovers, you should come by, it's the best pizza anyway. If you don't pick a favorite, you're just going to be confused, and then one day someone will offer you a Veggie pizza (pizza forbid!) and you'll just eat it and be grateful that you were satisfied.
Look, just come, okay? We'll share some pizza making techniques, talk about exciting ingredients, and then maybe thaw one of those frozen pizzas and chow down. Maybe even get crazy and add an extra can of pineapple.
You're not interested?
Well, clearly that's just because you don't really believe in pizza. I bet you never wanted it in the first place. You were just hungry, and I gave you food.

(long dramatic pause, significant look)

Now, where's that book on peppers...

Been thinking a lot about the recent scandal of Colonel Russell Williams.
Seems to me there is much to think about.
But one of the things that strikes me first is how quick people are to entirely vilify him in light of his crimes, and utterly forget that he has done anything good or remarkable.
It's interesting, when the divide goes the other way and people somehow rise above a life of repellent offense and make something productive out of their lives, they're often put on pedestals as heroes and overcomers. Yet when the good and the bad are concurrent, and the bad is discovered, it immediately nullifies whatever perception came before.

Either way, one thing is certain... nobody, at this stage of the game, knows who Colonel Williams is. Nobody is qualified to cast any real character judgments. All the angry people who want to see him dead are wrong, and all the people who still support him for what he has done for the military are just as wrong... it's not about either, it's about both. He is both of those things, and neither of them. He is a riddle, and maybe nobody will ever have the key.

But it's amazing how many people try.

So I present "the many faces of Russell Williams" as told by court sketchers.

First, a couple of actual photographs, so that we get the idea that there is a reality, even if it's seldom actually presented.



Russell looking like a normal guy. Not terrifically emotional, but that's about the standard for him, it seems, at least from a photographic point of view.



Less emotional. Little more proud, perhaps. Not necessarily a bad thing, in a military context.



Looking sad, and contrite. At the very least, shows some kind of human appreciation for the things that he has done.

Now, how have others seen him...?



Here he is, looking noble and dignified, if somewhat impassive and cold. This is probably fairly accurate, though one would have had to see him standing in front of them to really compare and say with any certainty.



Here he is looking a little more... shall we say, homeless and deranged. still a hint of sadness, at least, and the blankness that one would have come to expect. not that expectations have anything to do with it, of course... that's the point of this exercise.



Now where have I seen this before...



Ah, that was it.
lol.
Clearly, this is just somebody drawing their own feelings into a guy in a courtroom. because he can't possibly have been this sad guy and the empty guy at the same time. as well as the next guy...



Man, that is a LOT of anger. You suppose he really looked like that? in COURT? of course not. he didn't even look like that in the pictures he took of himself wearing girls clothes in their houses... he just looked ... well, kind of blank again. This guy looks like he's going to kill the artist. Maybe he knew what that pencil was doing to his face.



This guy, on the other hand, looks like he wants to kill the artist, the judge, the stenographer, and most of the people in the courtroom. Seldom has such malice been present in a sketch of someone so relatively unquantifiable and not broadly understood. Want proof?



Here's Joseph Edward Duncan III... among other things, he spent much of his life raping young boys, kidnapping and torturing children. Was convicted of killing at least one young child, and confessed to at least three more. If you ask me, he looks bored.



Everyone remembers Robert Pickton. He killed as many as 26 prostitutes (that we know of) and buried their remains on his pig farm. No real emotion here. certainly nothing to make him seem like the most evil individual possible.



Here's Clifford Olson, looking kind of tired and somewhat impressionistic. Easy to look that way after raping and killing 11 children, boys and girls, between the ages of 9 and seventeen.

So, why don't any of these people look half as "evil" as Russel Williams? Your guess is as good as mine, but if I were going to place a wager, I'd say that, as the world slides further and further off the sensationalistic cliff, and as people are exposed to more and more of the repugnant details of crimes that have no business being sold as newspaper fodder, the characters in the stories will stop being human beings altogether and start being whatever the artist, photographer, journalist or reporter decides will best stir public controversy and interest, or best serve their own political and social ends.

People don't want to see anyone objectively, and that goes more than double for people about whom it's unpalatable to be objective. The moment we see our humanity in someone like that, we recognize on a subconscious level that we might one day have to turn around and see their lack of humanity in us. Which is really all to say that neither are human or inhuman, but rather that humanity is something deep and complex, containing the very best and the very worst of what personalities have to offer, and we are all connected in myriad ways that we will never understand. So maybe we need to occasionally look at someone like Russel Williams with some level of compassion... He likely did not choose to be this type of person, did not say at the outset of his life "perhaps it would be best and most profitable for me to rape and kill women and videotape it"... and while it happened, and it's tragic, the tragedy is not lessened the more we draw him to be some kind of evil stereotype and place more hate and fear in the hearts of everyone within range of a tv.

It’s late. 1:30. I am out this late because I have just taken a friend home. On my way back, I am compelled to drive past a place I used to know all to well. The drive was unsatisfying. My heart, so often silent of late, speaks. Tells me to take a walk.

I listen.

 

A few blocks from the destination, a police car cruises past me. My heart accelerates. I don’t know why, however. I am doing nothing wrong, nor should they currently have anything against me. But I know all too well how they like to parlay their vague suspicions regarding behaviour into illegal searches, illegal arrests and illegal detentions. I am not their biggest fan. I practice my well-rehearsed speech to them as I continue to walk, and my blood slows as I realize that I am in the right.

 

I have arrived.

 

I walk in. Survey the damage.

Some places have been demolished. Others have been widened, but still cheekily hidden, potentially the safe places for children now to play their secret games. Still others have been left to overgrow, perhaps in hopes the burgeoning tangles will swallow whole the pains and difficulties and mulch them into grass in their hungry, unrelenting crawl.

 

The ground where the trees have been uprooted has become sallow, in places even marshy with the recent rains. Failed landscaping like a bad haircut or a skin graft that didn’t take, leaving passers-by to wonder what kind of deformity once existed to be able to call even this failure an improvement. I imagine they simply walk by and nod politely most times, content to uphold the safe fiction of their beautiful park, their manicured grass, their carefully considered treelines.

 

I wonder if children are still abused here. I wonder, as I bend to touch the dirt, if it has recently been wet with tears, or if that is merely rain that has cleverly penetrated the canopy above.

I cannot bring myself to enter the den of iniquity. Not yet. I probably could, but I truly want to heal, and true healing means I would like to feel something. And right now, dark considerations aside, I just don’t.

 

Halfway home the psychosomatic effects kick in. My brain busies itself blocking pain from my heart, my emotions, and suddenly I can barely walk on my right leg. I know that there is no reason for it to hurt, but the fact that it does comforts me.

 

I lie awake now, thinking. I will go back. I will continue to go back. Until I break. Until I feel something other than stale fear and the old anger, the anger that used to make me strong but now simply cripples my attempts to move on. It serves no purpose anymore other than to more deeply entrench my stubbornness and self-reliance. I don’t have to do it myself anymore. I don’t have to survive alone. I don’t have to carry all the weight.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A second night, a second trip. Doesn’t feel as imperative. Perhaps only because it was not so impulsive.

A block from home, head back; grab a copy of the prohibition order. Just in case.

At the park now, standing outside the border where they used to enter. I can already smell the fetid rankness of the swampy grass. Can’t believe I didn’t notice it stronger last night. I’d like to think they had good reason for “fixing” this place. Maybe they just wanted to bury something ugly. That would explain the smell.

I walk in. I feel nothing. I don’t know what’s wrong with me anymore. I don’t even feel relief at not breaking down, not sobbing. I just feel… emptiness. Empty like this cavern of trees and dirt and swamp. I try to feel. Try to regress. Try anything. It’s like trying to struggle my way out of quicksand, all I’m getting for my efforts is silence as the wet substance fills my ears and I frantically shake my hands above the surface. But even when I can’t breathe, I still don’t panic. Maybe I’m already dead.

I promised myself I would stay. Enter the darkness. Pray for something. I can’t do any of those things tonight. Maybe I just don’t feel safe enough to drop some of the protective barriers tonight. Maybe I need something else to make this work. I just wish I knew what it was.

Even the leg doesn’t hurt tonight.

Nothing.

Just silence, and my detached observations.

I’m sorry, Shawn. I can’t reach you tonight. I wish I knew what you were feeling. I wish I could help you let go of what you’ve done, and what was done to you, and all of the things in between.

This evening I went for a walk.

My walk took me past our little corner confectionary (by design, having decided that a Super Ice was not an extravagant desire for a warm Tuesday evening).

A father was sitting at the picnic bench outside the store with his three young children.

As I approached, the little boy moved his leg and his sandal fell off.

It was immediately, therefore, the only thing he wanted.

He half-articulated a variety of combinations of the words “want” and “shoe”. It was adorable, but also somewhat sad, because only a child can create that kind of desperate longing for something that is so attainable and make it seem like an impossibility.

The father being quite occupied with the other two and their ice cream treats, I altered my trajectory slightly, said “I can get that for you”, bent down, and picked up the shoe.

“There you go” I said.

The young boy looked pleased, and with another half-articulated “thank you”, contentedly set about the task of returning the footwear to its proper place on his foot. The father smiled at me as I continued into the store.

I thought about it for a while afterward, as I meandered through the neighborhood munching my own frozen treat, feeling… well, that’s just it, I’m not sure.

Pleased, perhaps, that I was able to be part of something so human, simple and basic.

Curious at what that father might have thought had he been aware of my past.

Scared, at how much my heart yearns for that kind of relationship while at the same time telling me so often that I am neither capable nor worthy of such treasures.

Content.

My motives were pure. I was simply, for a few seconds, one human reaching out to another because it’s what we were all designed to do.

And it’s in these moments of unadorned humanity that I feel most alive, most unbroken, most capable of loving and living in a way that is not only appropriate, but displays the love and hope of God in my broken form.

My past is part of what makes me who I am. But it is not the whole of me. It does not decide for me what I will do with my heart, my love, my kindness, my soul.

 

I was telling a story at Sex Addicts Anonymous today. It was a story about the first time I was arrested.

The police, not exactly fans of my work to that point in my life and overfond of labels, were quick to stamp my actions with a few. One of the bits of language around my charges was “corrupt morals”.

I wandered around for a couple of weeks in remand after that, deeply wounded and wondering if I was, in fact, simply “morally corrupt”. Could that be the sum of my character? Something to which I had no choice but to resign myself? My “condition”?

When I was in the Sex Offender Treatment Program, one of the key things I learned about was thought distortions. And a number of them decry this bit of fallacious reasoning as nothing more than maladaptive deduction. In particular, there is one called “labeling”, whereby on the basis of having done something stupid, one decides that they are stupid. There is another, called “emotional reasoning”, which allows for a similar thought, in that if one simply feels stupid, it must be true. Neither of these allow for the idea that people learn, change, grow, adapt, and mature in ways that make them better for having learned, rather than being corrupted by mistakes they have made. If we were all the sum of our mistakes, the world would be a dismal and hopeless shadow of even what it is now.

Here’s a quote from the Sex Addicts Anonymous handbook.

“Sex addiction is not just a bad habit. Nor is it the result of poor self-control, a lack of morals, or a series of mistakes”.

How liberating. To know that I am not “morally corrupt”, but addicted. To know that the solution is not being perfect, but being in recovery. To know that this is not a “condition” but an affliction, and that the real condition of my heart and soul can, and will, be found in fellowship and traditions and steps that are designed to liberate the best parts of me and slowly choke the life out of the worst.

 

I know a man who thinks I am “much more broken than the average person” and will “never be in any condition to marry anyone” and that, in reference to my “broken condition”, “it doesn’t change. It’s a part of you.”

It makes me sad to hear him say things like this. To call me, to my face, “unwhole” and “unhealed” in that tone that implies there is only one or the other, that you are either perfect or corrupt. For my part, I see Christ’s strength perfected in my weakness in the same way that I see my Higher Power saving me the more I confess my powerlessness. Neither of these recommend claiming wholeness. If I boast, I boast in the Lord, and His ability to bring me into line with how He would have me treat His children, His beloved, His world, and myself as His son.

 

That which you do for the least of these…

Whatever you do, do as unto the Lord…

 

Today, I gave a sandal to Jesus.

Who knows what I might do tomorrow.

There’s just no accountability anymore.

People used to be responsible, own up to all of their mistakes, and take their punishment like men.

Now, it’s all to easy to simply read a self-help book, accept Jesus, take some counseling and you’re free and clear. Well, I’m here to tell you that things have to change. We have to forget about all of this “grace” and “freedom”, and start spending some serious time behind bars. Because if I know anything, it's that the "authorities" are magical superbeings that really just have your best interests at heart. And sure, all this confession is hard on relationships, but If they really love you, they’ll write you in prison while they have a family with someone else, and really, what more could you ask for than watching any hope of a future flit away in the arms of someone else while you share a tiny cell with some dude named Vince? It’s only fair. After all, rules is rules. Even in the movies.

 

Aladin

My God, I can’t believe this. The princess falls in love with a thief, and suddenly that makes it okay? And then, because he found some genie, he gets to be the Sultan? Because they think he’s a good guy and he’s proven his character? What about all the thieving? I mean, in order to be fit to marry someone, let alone a princess, I’m pretty sure he’d have to pay for his crimes first. Come on, Aladin, man up.

 

Princess Bride

The Dread Pirate Roberts????? What possible redemption can be found here? True Love, you say? Well, that’s alright then. Except that he’s a PIRATE! Instead of attacking the prince’s castle and fighting the prince himself, Wesley should probably have just turned himself in. After all, that would be the right thing to do, and I’m sure it would make him feel a lot better about himself. It’s just what people do. She’ll wait for him… after all, it’s True Love.

 

Anastasia

So, a con man wants to trick a matriarch into thinking her long lost daughter has been found. The only problem is, he actually finds her. Oops. And the moment where we see the change of heart? He walks away from the reward money and tries to leave. Wait… that’s not character, that’s cowardice! He should really go to the local police (who have been chasing him for some time…) and let them know about all his other illegal schemes. After all, fraud is fraud, and what’s self-respect worth if not several years in a Russian prison? If you don’t deal with those things, you’re in no shape to marry anyone.

 

Casablanca

Everyone’s favorite romance, in which a drunk expatriate helps hide stolen documents that were obtained through murder, gives them to a fleeing refugee, forces an officer of the law to assist the escape at gunpoint, and then shoots a high ranking official before fleeing the country. At least he gave the woman of his dreams back to her husband. That’s right, her HUSBAND. But is that enough to really prove his love, or his character? Of course not. Get to jail, idiot. No free rides.

Here's life as I understand it. It's easy to become discouraged.
It's even easy, in fact, to presume the potential for discouragement and simply resign yourself to the fact beforehand to spare yourself the embarrassment of finding yourself in a position of being unprepared for something. God forbid.
It was Canada Day yesterday.
By default, I had been expecting at least one invitation from someone, somewhere, to go to the fireworks at Diefenbaker Park, where "everyone" goes.
Except for those of us who, for one legal reason or another, are forbidden to stand in such locations.
But what happened instead, was that I was at potluck at Stephen's house, on the west side, and the whole group of us walked down Spadina along the river toward the train bridge, wandered among the crowds and cars littering the little street and embankments, and stopped at a perfect clearing in the trees just as the fireworks started.
It's the same place I watched them from last year, although at that point, I still felt like I was more dragging my girlfriend to a less popular or beautiful or comfortable location for the show than that I was simply trying to enjoy something in a different way.
This time, I was part of an already-formulated and approved plan that, by the grace of God, included the fireworks but did not include a park, and thus included me.
And even so, I must admit that there was a chunk of time while we were journeying toward the river that my thoughts were very much set on simply wandering off if the chosen location did, after all, prove to be some kind of park. Just part of how I think, being ready, like I said, for the disappointment so that I don't lose face.
As though face is really something I need. : )

So it seems the lesson here is, sometimes in the midst of God's people, God answers a prayer, even if it's only to fit in for an evening.

I was reading my old blog today. Some of it's junk. Some of it is really good. I"m not sure how I managed to be that well-versed, but I'm pretty sure it had something to do with blogging more than once or twice a month. : D
But what really stood out to me was the level of depth and conversation that went on between myself and two of my friends, smaj and SitW. This, perhaps, is the sad thing; we had a deeper relationship on that blog than we have had since. In particular, I haven't really seen SitW for quite some time now, and he has a baby boy that I have only seen once, and that because they were at church when I happened to be there.
In more than one of the blog posts, we talk about how friendship would be a great thing to develop, how going from blog-friends to real life friends would be an endeavor worth undertaking, how we love each other and appreciate the words we have spoken into each other's lives.
But in reality, I'm pretty sure we barely know each other.
Me and smaj do slightly better, in that we at least see each other on occasion, even though much of it is silliness and movies. I do love him though, and I know that I should be giving more time to the relationship. It was just so much easier on the blog, where everyone has the chance to think and write and share only what they are comfortable sharing and shroud harsh realities in poignant poetry and allude to doing and feeling things that never have to be backed up because they only exist in the little chunk of cyberspace that we carved out for ourselves and each other.

And maybe that's the worst thing that the internet has done for us. Or maybe it isn't. I mean, where I was at the time, I really, really appreciated everything they said, and the chance to pour out my heart in a way that would elicit a safe, expected response that would make us all feel better about ourselves and our depth and intelligence and life view. I needed what it was, and might not have gotten through that period of my life without that outlet.
But at the same time, it contains exactly zero accountability. The internet is like Vegas. What happens online stays online. And we can make all the promises in the world to people that we know we won't really have to see if we don't want to. It's easy to justify because it makes them feel better. But that doesn't make it entirely right.

I was thinking about this concept already, but one of my old blogs brought it right back to me again in a new way, or a way that I had forgotten.
It was about my old church, and how their slogan, printed on their sign, is "a healing ministry to a hurting world".
At the time, I used myself as a counterpoint to that, because they couldn't even be a healing ministry to me when I was hurting, and I was one of their own. But that's why it's "a healing ministry to a hurting world"... because there is no accountability in wanting to heal the world.

The bigger a concept is, the less you actually have to do to pretend that you care. "Loving everyone" is easier than loving your brother. "Healing the world" is easier than healing your neighbor. Christianity, more than any one single place, is full of this. We believe "God changes people" but not that God changes individuals. We believe in "seeking and saving the lost" but not seeking and saving that guy we just walked past, or the family that just moved in next door, or the drunk in the back of the bus, or the guy who goes to our church who we know isn't a Christian but wants to be.

I'm familiar with this. I see it. And, unfortunately, like the discouragement with which I started this post, I often brace myself for it before it comes, expecting it to be there eventually. My old church wanted to believe in healing the world, but wanted to stop at me. My girlfriend's father wants to believe in God's power to change people's lives, but wants to stop at me. Even the church I attend now claims often to want to believe in God's grace and protection and freedom, but pause when the subject to whom they are extending that belief is slightly more difficult to trust or understand.

And of course, I do it just as much as anyone. I'm equally happy wishing I could "do something about the poor in Saskatoon" or "reach out in some way to men in prison". They're lovely ideas, but when it comes to some kind of personal experience, something tangible and individual, I'm just as scared as anyone.

At least I come by it honestly. Now

And as a tribute to how I hope my life has changed since then, I am grateful now. I am grateful that I was able to enjoy the fireworks (and the lightning, which was amazing), with friends, in a place I was allowed to be, free from the oppression of my past for a short while. I am grateful for the fellowship that came before and followed. I am grateful that I had the time and the resources and the freedom to be there, to be anywhere in fact. I often take my life and freedom for granted even though I promised myself in prison that I would not do such a thing. But it's easy, too. And I seem to always default to the easy response.

God, thank You for what You have given me, and help me to not only be grateful for what I have but to be willing to extend your grace and love to others in a way that will make them appreciate You in their lives in this same way.

Othello's slogan is "a minute to learn, a lifetime to master". I'm pretty sure that applies to anything.
So here are a few things I know this week.

One, appearances don't mean anything, but they're all we have. What a delightful paradox. We were driving in the van the other day, when this song came on the country station to which the driver had the radio tuned.
It opened like this...
"Haven’t been to church since I don’t remember when
Things were goin’ great ‘til they fell apart again
so I listened to the preacher as he told me what to do
He said you can’t go hatin’ others who have done wrong to you"

I was thinking that it was actually interesting to hear someone singing about something real. So I looked up the rest of the lyrics today. It's a song called "pray for you" by Jaron and the Long Road to Love. Sounds reasonable, right?

"Sometimes we get angry, but we must not condemn
Let the good Lord do His job and you just pray for them

I pray your brakes go out runnin’ down a hill
I pray a flowerpot falls from a window sill and knocks you in the head like I’d like to
I pray your birthday comes and nobody calls
I pray you’re flyin’ high when your engine stalls
I pray all your dreams never come true
Just know wherever you are honey, I pray for you

I’m really glad I found my way to church
‘Cause I’m already feelin’ better and I thank God for the words
Yeah I’m goin’ take the high road
And do what the preacher told me to do
You keep messin’ up and I’ll keep prayin’ for you

I pray your tire blows out at 110
I pray you pass out drunk with your best friend and wake up with his and her tattoos

I pray your brakes go out runnin’ down a hill
I pray a flowerpot falls from a window sill and knocks you in the head like I’d like to
I pray your birthday comes and nobody calls
I pray you’re flyin’ high when your engine stalls
I pray all your dreams never come true
Just know wherever you are, near or far, in your house or in your car,
wherever you are honey, I pray for you.
I pray for you"

Gr-reat.
Best song ever.
It’s like that common misconception that goes with a popular Shakespeare quote... "Now is the winter of our discontent".
But it's not that the summer of our discontent is now, because the real quote is "Now is the winter of our discontent/turned glorious summer by this sun of York".
But essentially, the truth of either will depend on your perspective more than the truth. If you think that now truly is the winter of our discontent, it will be your reality. And if you think praying for people entails hoping they die, then I’ll pray for you. Lol.

Second lesson. Not only is our reality contingent on our perception, but the output of our character is very often contingent on our perception of other people.
It’s our job, at the good ol' inventory company, to be accurate. That’s the primary concern. And generally speaking, I don't find it hard to be naturally predisposed to being accurate, because I like to believe in my quality, that I do a good job and that other people can see that.
however, when the store we're counting does a particularly lousy job of prepping it, of cleaning it, of organizing it, of doing anything that would make our job even slightly more doable or possible, then I start to find myself not caring as much. Screw them, I think to myself, if they don't want to do anything to promote accuracy, why should I?
Oh, right, because it's my job.
Lol.
and, on a similar note, while I love when people come to help me with long, pointless counts, I’m taking Friday off when I could (in theory) take the van ride up to Humboldt, count for a few hours, and then come home midway through the count. Why? Because I don't want to go to Humboldt. because I know it's going to be a crappy atmosphere, and I’ve been spending too much time in vans, and I just generally don't want to dedicate myself to this job to a point where it will be detrimental to my mental health. But ducking out of stuff, frustrating people who feel they have to go, etc... That’s just as bad for me. Maybe not in a sleep-deprivation way, but whatever.
On the plus side, I’m still going to Regina on Monday. We leave town at 5. In the morning. Sweeeeet.

Third lesson.
I was counting greeting cards the other day, and wound up with the section full of cute little teddy bear cards with "to my daddy" scrawled all over them for fathers day. and it made me realize that I’m never, ever going to stop missing my girls, or thinking of them in that same way, wishing they were still small and that I could receive a card like that, telling me that they loved me and that I did a good job. But I didn't. And they don't, really. And that's just the way it is. My youngest will turn 4 this summer. She doesn't even know I’m her dad.
I hate father's day.
I don't actually know what the lesson here is except maybe "don't make big mistakes with your life, because they will be with you forever, and while time heals most wounds, it doesn't take away the scars or the lingering after-pain. Be wise. Be loving. Be diligent.
And if you can't forget, then try to find a way to remember that won't make you totally miserable every once in a while when you don't really expect it.

Peace.
And thanks for listening.

p.s.
if you subscribe to a world view similar to Jaron and the Long Road to Love…

Don’t pray for me.

 

: D

 

So, now that we know that true repentance will lead to salvation, what is it we can expect of this salvation? What IS this salvation for which we pine, especially here on earth?

Well, part of what can be known about it can be known from the existing opposites in the turn of phrase from 2 Corinthians. Remember the last time we quoted from that passage, "For godly grief produces a repentance that leads to salvation and brings no regret" (2cor 7:10). Well, the second half of that verse is “but the sorrow of the world produces death”. So clearly, the salvation has something to do not only with rescue and deliverance, but also life. Or, perhaps, the deliverance from death into life.

What does that look like in the church?

Well…

Acts 3:19

“Repent therefore and turn back, that your sins may be wiped away, in order that times of refreshing may come from the presence of the Lord.”

 

This passage fits perfectly with our continuing processing of repentance, because it contains both concepts for true repentance… the first, “repent”, being a changing of mind, and the second, “turn back”, being the change of direction, a returning, the retreat to God.

But what does this verse specifically outline as the purpose for this repentance? Salvation of the masses? Power on high to subdue spirits and cast out infirmity? No, it says to repent “that times of refreshing may come from the presence of the Lord”.

This is potentially awesome. The word for refreshing here is a “recovery of breath”… and what else would you expect it to be, when the spirit of the lord, pneuma, is literally “breath”?

And here’s where it gets more interesting.

The very last figurative possibility for word “refreshing” in Strong’s Dictionary is “revival”. So, on a whim (thank you Holy Spirit), I punched “revival” into the dictionary on my Nintendo DS. And, consistent with its general layout, it had a standard dictionary definition, followed by a few uses in common phrases or quotes. And the very first one was 1 Kings 17.

Well, you know I had to go look.

Here’s the story.

Elijah is in the home of a widow whose child fell ill and died while he stayed there. Or as the King James puts it…

“1 kings 17:17

And it came to pass after these things, that the son of the woman, the mistress of the house, fell sick; and his sickness was so sore, that there was no breath left in him.”

No breath. Sounds like death to me.

But wait a while, and the prophet goes to pray, and cries out to the Lord in his anguish, and after he prayed for the healing, this is what happens…

“1 kings 17:22

And the Lord heard the voice of Elijah; and the soul of the child came into him again and he revived.”

The word for soul here is, entirely literally, “a breathing creature”, and is used figuratively to describe living, vitality, spirit, soul. All the things that God brings to life. And interestingly, if you look into the root of the word, you find that is derived from a root word used only three times in the bible, and translated every time as “refreshed”.

Times of refreshing.

Times of being brought back to life.

Revival and restoration.

Breathing again.

 

He tells us how we can breathe again.

By inviting the “presence of the lord”.

He tells us how to make that invitation.

“repent, therefore, and return, that your sins may be blotted out”.

 

The sins are in the way of God’s Countenance.

Blocking his face. Keeping us from breathing.

Until we repent and return.

 

And so we return to Ezekiel and David, where this all began, with finding new hearts.

 

Psalm 51:9-10

Hide Your face from my sins And blot out all my iniquities.

Create in me a clean heart, O God, And renew a steadfast spirit within me.

 

Ezekiel 36:26

Moreover, I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you; and I will remove the heart of stone from your flesh and give you a heart of flesh.

 

And of course, the “steadfast spirit”, the “new spirit”?

It literally means “wind or breath”.

 

But you knew that, didn’t you?

T-shirt Hell confuses me sometimes.
in my estimation, they have at least one, potentially two, shirts that are Christian enough for Christians to wear.
And even when they're trying to mock the ideologies of faith, they still sometimes accidentally make something that might make someone stop and think for a few seconds.
Here's their newest shirt.




I have to admit it took me a couple of seconds before I even caught what they were trying to say, but so far as I can guess, they're more or less playing on Christ's forgiveness being an excuse to keep sinning, and that it's fine to do so because the sins are already covered.
Now, the selfish perspective on this has been shot down in Romans, where Paul quite clearly tells us that we are not to keep sinning so that grace may abound.
However, if we take this shirt not as an excuse for future sin, but as a reflection on past sin, then honestly, is IS cool that Jesus died for our sins. Especially in light of what we might be able to accomplish within the sphere of that freedom.
"I can't have friends like you, you're a creepy pedophile". "No, it's cool. Jesus died for my sins."

I like it.

People who know me will know that, generally speaking, I'm more likely to look for the "reality" of a situation, rather than endowing coincidence with any particular meaning or significance.
That said, the rules do slightly change when God is involved, and then, discernment from others is often required to validate one's sense of actually feeling something.
I have, with intermittent and sporadic interest/success, been asking God to speak to me by giving me a song for the day. Usually they end up being the old Maranatha choruses, because those are the things that are likely embedded far enough into my subconscious to come forward and offer truth about my current mental state and situation, the things that God can most easily use to show me parts of myself that I’m not quite looking at.
Today, on the way to the library, and quite out-of-the-blue, I was struck to start singing "The Lord is Gracious and Compassionate", which is one of those good old-ish Vineyard songs. Also well within the sphere of styles I often appreciate.
Regardless, I get to my computer, and open my email, and there is an invitation to a worship conference by House of Prayer.
Let it be said first and foremost that I like worship conferences. Mostly, I think, because I like worship. So some of this will obviously be me seeking an opportunity to be who I think I want to be sometimes and experience something I often miss in my life. Nothing particularly wrong with that.
Anyway, I went to their blog to check out the information for the conference. It was a relatively short entry, just a bit of information about where and when and how much. (Turns out it's free, which is pretty cool...)
when I got to the bottom of the entry, I was struck by entry that immediately followed. It was just a single word title, which said "preparing".
And the only thing in the entry was a jpg of a bible page, on which was written the following passage on the topic of that preparation from Joel 2:
Rend Your Heart
2 "Even now", declares the Lord,
"return to me with all your heart
with fasting and weeping and mourning."
3 Rend your heart
and not your garments.
Return to the Lord your God,
for he is gracious and compassionate..."

It is cut off from there, but you can guess the rest of it. : )
Now, like I said, I try not to read much into things.
But as soon as I read it, I knew it to be truth that I needed to hear.
"Rend your heart and not your garments"... that's beautiful. And difficult. And necessary.
After all, "the sacrifices of God are a broken spirit. A broken and contrite heart, oh God, You will not despise" (psalm 51).

It's easy, in our grief and anguish, to tear our robes. It's tangible, visible, tactile. We know that we have done it and it is done. But to rend our hearts, to answer the call not to grief and sorrow but to the true repentance that is meant to follow it... well...
"For godly grief produces a repentance that leads to salvation and brings no regret" (2cor 7:10).

Rending our hearts is the step after we discover that we are sorrowed, and turn to offer the rent and damaged thing back to God, who has promised, among other things,
" I will remove the heart of stone from their flesh and give them a heart of flesh" (Ezk. 11:19).

which is great, because back in psalm 51, David asks specifically "create in me a clean heart, oh God, and renew a right spirit within me".

So we rend our heart in our sorrow, sacrifice it to God, and he takes that sacrifice and replaces it with something better, something more like Him.

Or, like I am so often tempted to do, I tear my robes, make sure that someone sees and acknowledged that they are torn, and then put on different clothes as though they were a different heart. Or, worse, a new and improved version of the old one.

And, in my case as in many, the lynchpin, the concept on which the efficacy of this entire repentance is based, is the wholeness of it. A “repentance that brings no regret” is a true repentance. I am much more fond of a repentance for which I have already calculated the possible regret and accounted for my lack of sustenance.

Which is not trusting God to, as David puts it in yet another passage from psalm 51, “sustain me with an upright spirit”. Sustain there is to “prop up”, which, in figurative language, is exactly what is required. I can not hold myself up, nor do I want to try. But God certainly can. The thing standing most directly in the way is my reluctance to let him. The false belief that something other than God can hold me up at all, or that somehow, God will not be capable of holding me in the best possible way.

 

This happens because it’s easier to safeguard our brokenness than it is to totally offer it to God. It’s easier to simply put a piece of our brokenness away, set it aside for future consideration, in case the whole sacrifice and submission and surrender thing just doesn’t quite work out.

But that’s not what God has in mind in Joel 2, is it?

“Yet even now, says the LORD, return to me with all your heart”.

 

All your heart.

Repentance without regret.

 

We have to turn the whole idea on it’s head.

We keep those things because we think of them as safety. Somewhere familiar to run when the thing that we don’t understand falls apart, proves too difficult, or comes with choices and realities that we don’t like.

But in truth, that’s who God is trying to be.

The retreat.

“Return to me with all your heart” is the same returning asked for in the well-known 2 Chronicles 7:14, “if my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves, turn from their wicked ways…”

This is more than just a turning, it’s a “turning again”, or, figuratively, a retreat. It’s used not only for repenting of sin, but of delivering of captives, recovering cities, and just of simple returning from somewhere distant to a familiar point of origin, like home, or family, or a place of necessity or safety or peace.

This… is God.

If we let it be God.

 

Or, we can keep a private retreat for ourselves, and find ourselves in the precarious position of going out to God and retuning to ourselves. It’s about where we keep our heart. Or where we decide to bring it.

 

Returning with all of our heart is giving the full, right sacrifice. Not what we want to give, but what God wants. A broken heart. A contrite spirit. In exchange for a new heart, a right spirit, a home and Someone to hold us up.

 

Sounds like a good trade.