What amazes me about Christianity is how utterly lost we are. In the past few years I’ve transformed into a cynic, and Christianity continues to puzzle me. How can we be so blind? Everyone seems to think they’re right, that if someone else believes something different, they must be wrong. I continually fall into this trap. I look down on others because they have a different view, as if I have the one, properly ordained theology. This gets tricky, because as soon as you begin claiming Christians can believe different things and both be correct, others jump all over you claiming your one step from saying all religions must therefore be correct. I just struggle with the different ways we see God, and we always think our view is the only correct one.
Midnight provides the silence the soul desires. A still quiet pervades and there’s a tremendous sense of
Sometimes you have to try a few times before you get it right.
The flying nuisance circles the room, buzzing around, landing, and flying again
I’ve always assumed that if you are a Christian, you vote Republican. No one ever told me this directly, but it’s something I’ve picked up from sermons, articles, and Christian rhetoric. Recently I’ve been refining my faith and asking difficult questions about what I believe
It seems kind of ludicrous to have a conversation on race in a room full of white people. How can you begin to understand the issue with only one race represented? I suppose that wasn’t the thrust of the gathering, but the topic came up. It was at a reading of a very intelligent and respected author. I wondered if he saw the foolishness of a crowd of white people talking about race. I suppose I shouldn’t complain, at least there is some dialogue. It just frustrates me that segregation is so ingrained in our lives. I walked back to my truck and passed people of other races that seemed a million miles away from me. Our circles of interest are radically different. This has been going on for ages, and I wonder if the trend will continue. The intelligent and respected author suggested we rely less on labels and concentrate on people. He said you can’t love a labeled group. But you can love a person. Perhaps that’s where the change needs to start. Little things like that. I wonder if the day will ever come when I can walk into a restaurant and the color of some one’s skin will be an attribute like any other I would use to describe them: tall, short, blond hair, red hair, glasses, etc. Of course to each one of these a certain stigma is attached and it seems rather hopeless.
I wonder how Jesus saw people.
Last night my stomach went for a ride. I woke up to find my stomach reeling in a circle, like my whole body was being twirled at the end of a rope. It was the kind of feeling you get from a rollercoaster, but I wasn’t at an amusement park, I was in bed trying to sleep. After a few minutes sense returned to my head and I rested safely on my pillow. Just a dream. But what kind of dream are you having when your mind gets so bored with sleep it decides to throw your body around? And this isn’t the first time I’ve had these dreams where I can actually feel my body flying. Maybe it’s some crazy metaphysical thing and I actually am flying. Or maybe my mind just likes to freak me out. But there’s something odd about waking up because it feels like you were just dropped from a 747. It’s not exactly a feeling that resonates with a good night’s sleep. Maybe tonight I should strap myself in.
My head is swimming in a sea of possibility. What happened to yesterday when I played in the backyard? Now it’s time for the dreams to come true and I just don’t know what I want to do or where I want to go. But I have to figure it out yesterday and sound like I know. The cover letter has to be perfect, not too stuck-up professional, not too slacker-creative. Then comes the interview where you have to know what you’re talking about and pretend you want to work for somebody you really know nothing about. Can’t I just go play in the backyard again? What happened to yesterday and when did I get so old so fast?
After a period of silence Paul couldn’t stand it any longer, “So
And sometimes it just doesn’t work. I think you have to admit that. But that’s kind of what I like about writing. You can just play with it. My dad liked to build models and raise pigeons. I like to write. I’m not so much in love with sentences (as I feel I should be), as I just like to craft stories and words and watch something useful and valuable rise up from the mess of language. Some days I have it, and some days I just don’t.