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Dear Mark Driscoll

(Written 21.January.2014)

Dear Mark,

I know you and I have had some…difficulties.
Admittedly, mostly on my end…due to you being a very public personality and, well…really not knowing me at all.
I also know that I—for some time, chose to just do what I could to ignore you rather than stir up negative emotion in myself that had no outlet.

But I’ve come to realize two things about you which came to me—quite literally, out of nowhere (or is it, out of everywhere?). Two things I now realize run true through everything I’ve ever read of yours, and every word I’ve ever heard you speak. So if you’ll allow me to do so, I’d like to tell you what those two things are, and then maybe do a nice little wrap up of what I’ve gleaned from realizing them.

The first thing I’ve come to realize about you is just how much (it seems) you long to know that you are chosen, that you are loved, that you are accepted.

That you’re important.

Gosh, when it’s out there like that, it comes off…a little harsh…a little…rough around the edges. But then again, so do you.

Like, all the time.

Come out a little harsh, a little rough around the edges, but in spite of (or precisely because of and alongside) this, you still embody something I believe all of us feel—that longing to feel accepted, truly and genuinely accepted.
No matter what sort of differing semantic label we put on it: chosen, predestined, predetermined, loved, liked, favored. I believe that that is at the core of all humanity, and I believe that that hole (as Pascal would call it), that void, that…womb can only be filled (fulfilled) by God above. And we all wish it filled (whether we’re aware or not). And we’re all a wee bit…rough around the edges in regards with how we go about with that desire.
A desire for something beyond this…reality. This…age. This existence and experience.
A desire for love and acceptance that only God can satisfy.
A desire to know that we are loved and accepted and enjoyed and favored.
A desire to know that we are chosen…predestined…elect.

A desire to know that we are…important.

And we are.
And…you…are.
In all my time on this earth I don’t think I’ve ever come across anything that wasn’t important to God—anything that was deemed unimportant in any way. (God kinda does a better job emphasizing this point than I ever could in the book of Job, but at any rate it would be a truly fascinating thing indeed that somehow manages to exist in this universe without being important to the Creator of it all.)

And that brings me to the second thing I realized about you.
Despite what critics say of you, I don’t believe you think highly enough of yourself (if you actually do at all).
I know, I know, this whole…lovey dovey stuff is easy to dismiss.

Love. Bleh.

Love. Bleh.

But to me, that whole 1st John “God IS Love” business is one bomb that just isn’t easily gotten rid of.

bomb disposal

What I don’t wish to convey is that the…dark doesn’t matter.
That sin doesn’t matter.
That our fallen nature should so easily be over looked, ignored, or otherwise tossed to the side at the expense of the fact that God IS LOVE. On the contrary, I believe it’s vitally important—there is a necessity to our fallen nature, to sin, and it is something that most definitely shouldn’t be overlooked, ignored, glossed over.

It should most definitely be seen—if only through the foundational “God IS Love” lens, not in spite of it.

You know, my father once said that the closer you get to light, the bigger the shadow you cast. How true for those of us who—as Hank Williams so eloquently put it, have seen the Light! It’s this fact that leads me to truly believe that when Paul wrote that he was the “Chief of all sinners,” he was writing out of genuine emotion, not to make some statement of ratings and placement above everyone else.

The problem is, when we let our shadows define us, and not the other way around.

It is inevitable that when we interact with light we will cast a shadow, and—as Dad said, the closer we get, the bigger the shadow. But to define the shadow as anything other than a byproduct of our interaction with light is folly. It indeed stems from us, it indeed is connected to ourselves (unlike Peter Pan), it’s very existence is indeed based on ours. And it indeed is something that should not be ignored or overlooked, for we all cast shadows (all have sinned and fall short). But that shadow is still not a something, it is a no thing, a nothing, a lack of something—namely, light. And ultimately—going back to my father’s original words, it is nothing more than a byproduct of our interaction with light.

The light.

And this is where seeing through the eyes of the light—seeing through the eyes of the one who sees me, comes into play. I believe the Father sees us.
Yes, He sees the shadow too, but to the one who created all things, sustains all things and through all things were made and nothing that was not made was through him (refine), I believe that what he FOCUSES on is the thing, not the no thing.
He sees both, but what does he know, what does He focus on, what does his Gaze fall on?
The shadow?

No!

For knowing Himself, knowing He is light, and knowing the state of this world where shadows are cast because it isn’t finished, where He has not yet filled all the voids, surrounded everything and thus, leaves no room for shadows to be cast, He focuses His creation, not the byproduct of His interaction—His relationship with His creation. He focuses on the something, not the no thing.

Which brings me back to you.

You are a something, not a nothing.
You are a somebody, not a nobody.
You are important enough to be created, important enough to be saved.
Not from yourself, but from your shadow.

But I don’t think you’ve been able to see the difference. I don’t think you’ve been able to separate the fact that YOU ARE NOT THE SHADOW YOU CAST.
And I don’t think you’ve ever been able to accept yourself.
Love yourself.
“Choose.” Yourself.
I don’t think you’ve ever seen yourself through the eyes of the one who sees you. Yes, who sees your shadow too, but have you ever played that game where you put your hand in front of your face and rotated between focusing on it, and focusing beyond it? Which one is blurry, but still seen, and which one isn’t depends on what you’re focusing on.
And God is focusing on YOU.
Not. Your. Shadow.

See the darkness, yes.
Hate the darkness, yes.
In fact, I believe that’s why God created you as such a warrior. And with such a hatred of that dark, the darkness. Because that’s what He hates. And that is what the fight is against. Not flesh and blood, not some things, but the no things.
The nothings.
But you’ve gotta stop believing the lie that the dark shadow is you. Or that anyone’s is theirs. I mean, yes. There are those who fear the light and so hide in the darkness where their shadow cannot be seen, but that is as much them believing a lie as you believing one.
Hate the darkness.
Hate the dark.
Hate the shadow.
Fight the darkness.
Fight the dark.
Fight the shadow.
But see what the One who sees you sees. A warrior. A voice. An example of the struggle of the whole of the human race.
Don’t believe the lie that the shadow is you, or you’ll never wish to truly get close to God—who IS LOVE, out of fear of how big your shadow becomes.

Run to it.

Because I believe once you do, you will see that just as God hates your shadow, not you, he also hates everyone else’s shadow.
Not them.
And all your glorious efforts and fight can be directed toward the true enemy. The no thing that wants to be a some thing.
The void that longs to be filled…with more void.
The womb. Waiting for a child.
The empty dirty, poopy manger. Waiting for a birth.
For life.
For Jesus.

So Mark, know this:
You are important.
And it’s time you started believing it.

And, yes, that may not be an easy thing.

I Don't Believe You.

But you owe it to yourself, and you owe it to the one who gave you the ability to do so. And you know what one of the favorite things I’ve ever learned in my studies is? That “belief” in the original Greek—particularly in the case of John 3:16f is not only “belief into” (pisteuo eis) but that the definition of belief is “a willingness to be convinced of.” You don’t have to convince yourself that what I say is true, because it’s not on you to do the convincing (Scripture does say that it’s Jesus—not us, who is both the author and perfecter of our faith), but be willing to be convinced.

Believe. And See.

Cheers and Blessings til I see you on the other side of eternity (unless I happen to do so in this age.).

~(a) Christian

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Oh Sh*t! I May Just Be A Hipster…

(Written 21.December.2013)

Recently I’ve become more aware (or perhaps just more sensitive) to my having been given some sort of official stamp of “HIPSTER” administered by an ambiguous but clearly certified/accredited/licensed inspector—employed by the one and only nefarious and clandestine Hipster Labeling bureaucracy undoubtedly responsible for such matters and the like.

Hipster LabelMy reaction tends to go from defense— “Honestly! I have never been able to drink black coffee until I was 28 and not for lack of trying! I’ve tried my whole life to drink bitter unenjoyable beverages!”
Or, “I have two older sisters, I was raised being told how to dress!”
to calling out improper definition—

HIPSTER…
that word means“You know, there’s this sliding definition of this word “Hipster,” based solely on appearances and dress and—ignorantly, I might add, having nothing to do with the actual culture, where it REALLY lies.” And usually I’d direct their attention to an article published in the NY Times and written by a prominent assistant professor at Princeton University:
HERE
which is still a great article, but successful in enlightening people to truth, it (usually) does not.

And when those both fail, I curl up in a ball behind the coffee shop counter that I work and cry.

cryingBut here’s the thing (given my extensive thinking applied to this such topic), more and more I’ve realized that—maybe I’m alright with being a hipster.
*GASP!

As can obviously be inferred, I’ve gotten into many an exhaustive discussion over this word and have come to conclude TWO things about Hipster…coterie, not to be confused with couture, which—as it stands, apparently must be addressed first to understand what Hipster is not, in order to best understand what it is.

THE PROBLEM WITH DEFINING HIPSTER SIMPLY BY STYLE AND DRESS:

I get it, it’s relatively easily and of the least effort to look at someone and—based solely on their appearance, throw out the classification, “Hipster,” quick to forget that YOU aren’t in the employ of the true one and only nefarious and clandestine Hipster Labeling bureaucracy. But it’s here—on even just a basic level of language and word definition, that the problem lay therein.

If “Hipster” were something so easily defined as such, why do we have such a sliding scale when it comes to this word? If to the small town American man, someone wearing a…western shirt with nothing else matching western attire is a hipster, and to that western shirt wearing man, another wearing a scarf is hipster, and to scarf man the guy with a mustache and all of the preceding is a hipster, and to moustachioed man the guy that has all of the preceding AND a vest is a hipster, and to vest boy the guy wearing everything AND suspenders is a hipster, and to suspended boy the guy wearing all the preceding AND glasses is a hipster, and to visually challenged guy the guy wearing everything preceding AND TO TOP IT OFF, wears a tie tucked into his button down western shirt—THAT’S a Hipster, well, then…we’re screwed and will never be able to properly define Hipster.

We’d be as pigeon-holed into improper definitions as, say, I don’t know, the head of a Dynasty of Ducks defining homosexuality as something so simple and obvious as preferring men’s anuses to women’s vaginas…

THE DEFINITION OF HIPSTER.

Well, so I hope it’s evident now that a definition based solely on people’s opinions of other people’s looks makes an actual definition, does not.
So what is a Hipster? And—more importantly, what is “Hipster coterie”?
As I said above, I’ve concluded two factors that seem to define both the Hipster, and the coterie of thus. They can easily be summed up as two basic desires (that—with some self inspection, can be seen as almost inherently human desires): The desire to know that I MATTER; and the desire to convey that YOU MATTER.

I hope you had a chance to go through the NY Times article on Irony cause it not only brings up some valid points, it also helps to define an aspect of Hipster coterie that is very much at it’s heart. Why live in irony? Why pick up weird hobbies?

Self-protection and preservation? YES.

To stand out uniquely in a way so as to know—truly know, that regardless of you learning to play the tuba or perfecting your micro home brew, you ARE unique in and of yourself, and—more importantly, YOU MATTER.
MOST DEFINITELY YES.
I bring this point up first because it is indeed that vulnerable place that I’ve not only noticed, but recognize in myself.
And those that know me know I wear it on my sleeves. I’m a walking example of a desire to know I matter. And—looking back over my whole life, my style choices (even the “what the hell was I thinking wearing JNCO jeans, Nike high tops, a screen print shirt and flannel with a terrible perm, glasses and braces” choices), I can say that everything was done with a desire to be “me” (even if I didn’t know what that me was) and more at the heart, to know I matter. Me. I have value.
Just because it looks differently when it’s a grown man who chooses to look like this:
hipster
do not mistake that at the heart is the same man who—if he truly understood, accepted, and lived knowing at his core that he mattered, that he has value; well…he still may dress like that as a means of self expression, but perhaps not doing so out of a means of discovering love and value and worth.

**This should also be expressed on the flip side of those who bow and bend to style and cultural trends and looks that ebb and flow, they too are looking for the same worth, value and that they matter.

THE DESIRE TO CONVEY THAT YOU MATTER, WE ALL MATTER:

While it can be said that being a Hipster could indeed be a means of self protection and preservation, on a larger scale, perhaps this is sign and not the substance of a much more important facet. Perhaps never taking a strong opinion about anything that really is important, is not only a means of self preservation but a means of innately knowing their own desire to matter, and wishing to convey to others that they matter too. Perhaps what looks like “tolerance” and not wishing to offend is really just the means of a deeper desire to convey to the whole of humanity around them that we all matter. Perhaps to be offensive is to alienate those you wish to show acceptance to—which is ALL. Which also—should be understood that—while not right, the only people unaccepted are those who are themselves, unaccepting.

Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean to say the means themselves are right and should be seen as such. No. Look, I’m someone well aware of their faults to a fault. You will never hear me say that there’s nothing wrong with me. But you will also never hear me say that there’s nothing wrong with everyone else either. And that’s the point itself. I’m not right. And they’re not right. And the whole world isn’t right. And so the means can never quite make the mark.

too slow   (Awww, that close.)

But perhaps there is something to be said of at least trying—even if it’s faulty.

Perhaps the deeper substance behind the flash and mustache should be given a second look and a second thought. That we all desire to know that we are loved and accepted. And if you (even innately) know that about yourself, you desire to show that to and for others. And that may be conveyed with words like “tolerance” and “coexist” and never wishing to call out any one’s faults, or it may come across as an underlying recognition of EVERYONE BEING NOT RIGHT. That we’re all not good, but that’s whyit’s good. Because you cannot truly convey love and acceptance, you cannot truly know yourself that you matter, that others matter if you were perfect, or if your faults were overlooked. It’s in the faults that we know we are truly loved. It’s in falling short that I know I matter.
And it’s he who has been forgiven much that loves much.
Yes. Even to the ones that make big deals out of nothing on Facebook. Yes. Even to the guy that makes it a point that you’re ordering anything but a black coffee and never smiles while serving you your beverage (I’m looking at YOU, *not so* Happy Coffee). Yes. Even the Wal-Mart shoppers. Yes. Even the people that call you Hipster.
Yes. Even the people that preach love and grace but their actions convey anything but.

If being a Hipster means that I not only struggle with mattering myself, but desire to show that others matter. If it means that I know my own faults and that I will always fall short and never make the mark, then I am sensitive that perhaps others are of themselves as well, and I don’t need to draw attention to their shortcomings and so on.
Look, my dad always said that the closer you get to light, the bigger the shadow you cast.
What are you gonna focus on, the shadow? The not thing? Or are you going to recognize that that not thing, that no-thing, that nothing, is simply a by product of YOUR interaction with the light? And perhaps when the light sees YOU, it SEES YOU. And it knows that the shadow you cast ISN’T YOU.

Why continually focus on the things that aren’t people, the things that don’t matter when what’s truer is focusing on the person, on the things that do.

And if that makes me a hipster, then, well, shit.
Consider this my “coming out of the Hipster closet” moment.

I’m a hipster.

And if we’re still simply relying on the appearance of a person to define them as a hipster…
then, well, I do enjoy being stylish. I mean, this doesn’t put itself together…

wink
So stamp away, label this Hipster what he is…
a Hipster.

Hipster Label

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When Life Kills the “Impossible Dream”

(Written 26.February.2013)

Some time ago, I referred to Aldonza’s song sung when facing the ‘cruelest of all’–Don Quixote, after being stolen, carried off, and brutally and repeatedly raped. I associated it as that which I oft cried out to God (even when I feigned ‘proper’ polite and dutiful Christian prayers and actions, underneath my words and heart remained the same cry). If you haven’t seen it, or follow with what I’m saying, you can watch me speak here, or simply see the song clip here.

Recently—who am I kidding, repeatedly (to the point of almost being a constant) life has not been manifestingly kind. Where once excitement lay in change, in the bed now seems to be only despair.
As often as I’ve spoken—and even in symbol, representation, and connection referred to, the ‘mad knight’ Don Quixote, to seeing life as it should be and not as it is, to ‘dreaming the Impossible Dream,’ to the world being better for seeking, striving, fighting, reaching, all for the unreachable star, no matter how hopeless, no matter how far, no matter how beaten and battered, no matter how scorned and riddled with scars; I can (and truthfully must) admit to presently and consistently a loss of hope.
Of late, it’s as if I am not merely struggling to keep afloat, to press on through it all, to do what I must, what I ought, what’s placed before me to do; but instead like pieces of me are being torn away, ripped out, robbed, given away like a whore for a measly scrap to get by on. Of witnessing bridges—connections in joy, and hope and love, being washed away in a flash flood (of no apparent cause but nature itself), of roots steadily unearthed without any sight of fertile soil to replant. Of opportunities and purpose fading away like phantoms, of loss and of outlets and of passions dashed.

Having hope torn apart.
Having that ‘impossible’ dream turned to shame.
And life killing that dream I dream.

Put simply, from the sweet, exciting song on my lips being this:


(LYRICS HERE)

To a guttural wrench provoked both through and out of me resonating thusly:

Fantine
(LYRICS HERE)

Change has presently rendered itself to be quite at hand both temporally and physically. I do not know what it will bring, nor where it will bring us; in fact I don’t truly know much of anything at all. What I am quite well aware of is that ‘change’ is not always neat, it’s not always tidy, and it’s not always kind.
And what I also know is myself.
And I know that where I have oft had excitement at the possibility of new, of uncharted waters, for in each, there was a bounty to be harvested, treasures and new realms and possibilities and hope and anticipation and all manner of beauty my imagination lended itself to, creating, scripting, writing my future role, the story, what could be done and would be best done; there now lay only void.

Absence.

No imagined beauty.
No wonder.
No hopes.
No dream.

Yet if experience has taught me anything (which it has, succeeding in keeping me foolhardy in never giving up), it is that there is an inevitable oscillation between hope and desperation. I’ve had change I feared that turned to wonder. I’ve had change I anticipated excitedly only to reveal itself to be nothing. I’ve hoped. And despaired. And hoped again, and despaired once more. I’ve discovered giftings and talents and truths about myself. Only to have no use of those which I reveled in, hoped to see manifest and used, longed to share and make known.
I’ve seen the simplest of me come out.
I’ve stared into the refining fire and accepted the face staring back at me, the reflection of my own therein, and the cruel, wicked, vile, dancing shadow I cast—growing larger and larger the closer I draw to that fire.

I’ve cried out in anguish and wretchedness that if God was whittling and pruning me down to nothing in this life to just take the last thing I have left, life itself—to just kill me off and be done with it, only to angrily hear a quiet whisper from my heart, “NEVERTHELESS, not my will, but yours be done.”

Still I dream.
Still I hope.
Still I believe in the sun, even in night.
Still I believe in the fixed guiding star that always remains, even behind the storm clouds.

And the more I fade, the more I lose, the more I witness the waves of uncertain, unknowable, untrusted, unsure change drawing closer and closer to my shore; of tethers to the here and now being cut, of friendships and opportunities and hopes and aspirations washed away; the more I stare at the fire all around me rather than the shadows behind me, the shadows of me, the more I lose sight of all which I place(d) importance in and I bear witness to the fire alone.

I used to think that what I longed for was what the fire could share, of what it could speak, and teach, and reveal, and change, and affect in and through me. I convinced myself (quite well, actually) that I desired more than anything for the fire to speak to me, to give me purpose, to answer my questions, and make itself real by proving to me that I am real.
But in a (foolishly) fleeting moment of truant honesty and flagrant, unmitigated transparency, I discovered that what I truly long for, what I have found myself in want of was the quite simply the fundamental, childlike desire simply for the presence. I didn’t find myself wanting the fire to tell me what to do, how to do it, where, and why; but merely to know its presence anywhere and at all times, to embrace me, to wrap me up.

Not for the fire to coddle me, but to swaddle me.

As easy as it would be for me to say that I don’t want someone to merely listen to me, to simply take me in as I am—to simply take me in, as easy as it would be to say that I want conversation, I want knowledge, I want activity and a place to shine and be me, I don’t.
I just want to know it’s there.
I just want to feel it.
To see it present with me in every moment and every where.
To hold me when I hurt.
Bounce me when I’m giddy.
Burn when I’m angry.
Correct when I stray.
To love regardless of my lovability.

This, I know, is undoubtedly foolish, childish, unwise. And I am indeed anticipating the time where this fleeting revelation, and bury it back deep within (yet this itself is hopeless, for as I said, I’m quite foolhardy).

For when life kills the dream I dream, I’m left with nothing but reality.

But it’s a reality that remains in spite of me, despite me. A reality which my dreams contain so many elements of. A reality any dream I dream is and can only be based on. A reality which even the best dream I dream proves itself in comparison to be just that, a dream in the face of a glorious reality.

 

(WHAT HAPPENS WHEN IT HAPPENS AGAIN?
WHEN LIFE KILLS THE IMPOSSIBLE DREAM AGAIN?
6 years later, and you get “Part 2”)

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