• I Surrender Some
• Mediocre Grace
• Blessed Insurance
• I Sit in Bemusement
• Above Most
• All Hail the Power of Jesus’ Political Clout
• Be Still My Soul
  (but not so still I fall asleep… again)
• Blessed Be Your Name
  (when the Cowboys win)
• Fiend of God
• Great is My Faithfulness
• Look at Me! Here I Am To Worship!
• How Can I Keep from Sinning
  (tomorrow)
• Oh Crappy Day
• It’s All About Me
• Your Grace is Almost Nearly Enough Most of the Time
• I Need Thee Every Few Years or So
• Come Just As You Are
  (as long as you’re not too messed up)
• Come Just As We Hope You Become
• Today is the Day
  (for a short sermon)
• My Redeemer Lives
  (in a land far, far away)
• Shout to the Lord
  (because He certainly hasn’t heard me lately)

This is all, of course, meant in jest.

Feel free to add your own in the comments, now newly renovated so you can login with your Facebook, Twitter, or OpenID credentials.

Susan, a Hollywood actor with multiple “failures” in both her career and her relationships, decided she’d had enough of God. So she took Him to couples counseling and chronicled the journey in Angry Conversations with God: A Snarky but Authentic Spiritual Memoir. It’s funny as all get-out and painfully honest. Her transparency bleeds from the pages, and where most comics use their gift to hide their inadequacies, Susan’s self-deprecating style brings everyone’s guard down to where we know we are like her in so many ways. Consequently, if she can laugh and grow, then, by God, we can too.

On her book tour (before I’d read the book), Susan challenged me to be brutally honest before God. This is something that had never occurred to me before. I feared being “smoten” for my insolent ways.

Then I recalled my experience, just a few months prior, when I yelled at God like I never had before. And felt bad for doing so, because that’s what a “good” Baptist upbringing will do to you.

Yet I quickly got over that feeling, because the felt injustice of my situation was too overwhelming, to the point where words that I would never have thought about using in a prayer starting running away from my mind and out through my lips. The words came in such a flurry of fury that the sentinel at the door didn’t have time to man the battle-stations and stop the tide of vehemence. He was woefully under-prepared for the onslaught of pent-up rage.

When the words stopped, the silence was dreadful. I was sure I was about to be struck down, to be given the chance to meet my Maker right then and there so I could voice my complaint in his very Presence. But instead of instantaneous death, I heard these words:

I know… I know… I know…

…spoken as from a mother heartbroken over her child’s necessary pain.

I sat stunned, drowning in grace. My anger subsided. And while the answers I wanted didn’t come (ever read the end of the book of Job?), it didn’t matter. The fight I’d had with God (which still continues from day to day) changed me, as if from Jacob to Israel.

So thank you Susan, for being honest with yourself, with God, and with us. It’s helped me, immeasurably. I’m not as mad as hell anymore; I’m just mad at hell on earth.

you’re so numb
you’re not even sure if you can make that judgment call on yourself
nothing touches you
even if it did you wouldn’t notice
or care

but then the weather changes
the season turns
there’s a chill in the air
that somehow shocks you into feeling
the gray skies and cold days
make you feel more alive than you have in ages

and maybe by knowing that the weather can change
you think you can too
so you try a little harder today
to do something you’d never do
to be someone you’ve only hoped to be
to pretend
in hopes that the charade becomes reality

- written in a storm, 101608

I wrote the following review/synopsis  after returning from the event; however, at the time, it didn’t see the light of day, or screen, as it were. I didn’t buy the book for myself at the event (since it’s an over-sized, highly visual coffee table book), but I did buy a copy for a friend. Before handing over the book, I wrote the following down for future consideration. However, just last week, I bought the thing at Mardel for $5 and was consequently reminded of what I’d written.

Don’t keep reading if you still want to read the book! This is a very general synopsis, but now that you’ve been warned…

Bell breaks down his thoughts into three sections, or “arts.”

I. The Art of Distraction
It occurs when life throws you a knuckle-ball that, instead of hitting the dirt, smacks you in the eye. It knocks you to the ground, takes the wind out of your lungs, and quickly, painfully, alters your worldview. Layoffs. Bankruptcy. Divorce. Death. Things that most of us never see coming. Things most of us never imagine happening to us.

There are some who never recover from a hit like this.

There are others who cannot get beyond the muddy, murky existential questions of Why me? Why now? Why God?

Then there are those, and narrow is this path, that press through the questions (whose answers, if they come, seldom help the way you think they will) and get to the place of asking What now?

II. The Art of Elimination
Taking away what is to show what could be. Michaelangelo said the statue of David cried to be freed from the stone pillar from which it was carved. Mark Twain said that if he’d have lived longer, he would have written less. Every true artist, in every true art form, knows that brilliance and genius lie in the tension between the giving and the taking away, between what is and what isn’t, between the first draft and the pared-down final copy.

If I’m to assume that my life is a work of art co-created by its Author and subject, I have been squarely placed in this point of my life for the sole purpose of editing myself – to eliminate what is to become what could be.

What should be.
What should have been.
Which never could have been, had I not been given the “opportunity” to be in this place in the first place.

I now see my recent past as chisel to stone, regardless of who’s hand was on the blade.

III. The Art of Possession
You can own something and not possess it.
You can possess something and not own it.

You’d think consumerism is all about the buyer, the consumer, but I think the word is more dastardly than that, even in its blatancy. Consumerism consumes, even like a roaring lion, looking for whom it may devour.

It will eat your life in tiny bites and make you feel thankful for it. You’ll feel thankful because, somehow, the buying gives you meaning, a reason to exist, a thing to do.
If this is the case, your story is too small, not even long enough to be a novella.

You will own much and possess woefully little. You will not be happy, not where it matters at least. You will wear the same facade you’ve seen on TV, worn by actors who are paid to lie to you. You will buy that lie, repeatedly, as many times as it takes so the effect of the drug doesn’t have enough time to wear off.

But then death calls. Or she leaves. Or the money disappears.

How much TV do you watch then? How much shopping happens then?

Facades like scales fall from your eyes.

You remember how much family means.
You recall why you made friends with your friends in the first place.
You feel God, maybe for the first time, in a long, long time.
You reach out while reaching in, and feel emotions you thought you’d buried so well.

Things become meaningless, but the world erupts with life.

You have the fleeting thought that this is how life is supposed to be, even in the pain, in strange ways because of the pain.
You were always supposed to be like this, not acting like that. That’s not who you really ever were; this is who you are – this is who you should have always been.

So your things no longer define you, and self-gratification is no longer your motivation.

You begin to own little, yet possess all.

IV: The Art of Suffering
This is not one of Rob Bell’s points, although it may have been The Point of the Book, or the point I’m supposed to do something with.

Suffering births creativity. Artists create meaning from their suffering.

This is not new information.

In my current state, on this Friday the Thirteenth of November 2009, I want to forget everything about the last year.

Lately, each day causes me to recall “What exactly was I doing on this date last year?” It’s a sinister mind game. I already know the answer, and yet I feel the need to dredge the sludge of the slums of my previous life. I wonder why my mind does this to itself. I’ve processed so much, and have come so far, yet I still wonder “Will the self-damning questions ever end?”

And I wrestle.

I wrestle with the fact that I do not want this experience to define who I am.
I do not want to use it as a crutch for the rest of my life.
And I want to forget, because that’s easiest, no matter how hard my mind tries to make it.
Yet I cannot forget it, and I will never forget it.

While it will not define me, I cannot help but to realize that it is, however, an irrevocable part of my definition.
The full definition of “me” won’t be realized for many years to come (if even in this lifetime), but I still have a very active role in writing those words.

In learning to birth creativity from this suffering, I must humble myself, pray on bent knees, pick up the shattered remains of a previous life, and piece them back together into something wholly new but still wholly me.

It’s time to start living the rest of my definition.

Truth be told, The Invention of Lying, the recently released-on-DVD film starring Ricky Gervais and Jennifer Garner, caught me off-guard. I knew the basic premise, that no one ever lies, or even knows how to, but one man, our protagonist Mark Bellison, learns to lie. I assumed the movie would be funny because of Gervais’ leading role. Some parts were funny, in that cringe-inducing way that Gervais seems to have perfected. Some parts were more crass, or even mean, in a darkly comic way. I did not, however, expect an overtly spiritual bent to the last half of the film. If you have yet to see the movie, I recommend that you buy it, rent it, or stream it, watch it, then come back to this article.

 Especially since I’m going to spoil stuff.

Read the rest at RelevantMagazine.com…

I’ve come to understand that I like movies dealing with the way we remember, or forget, certain things.  Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is another favorite, for instance. For a long time I couldn’t figure out why I was drawn to these types of movies. I started to blame this affinity for memory movies on the fact that I can’t remember most of what I’m told. I have a friend who chides me for this every chance they get. Honestly, I think my short-term memory shorted out when I gave myself a concussion during my sophomore year (which is apt considering sophomore means “wise fool”), and which shall remain an interesting anecdote saved for another post…. once I remember what happened.

Where was I?

Oh. Right. Remembering.

More than having a personal connection to these kinds of stories, because I do, in fact, wake up every morning thinking, “Who am I?” and “Why am I here?” and  “What am I supposed to be doing today?” (and, let’s be honest, we all ask ourselves these questions every morning, even if they’re not spoken aloud, or even consciously thought) is having the very real desire to be free of who I was, to have a proverbial clean slate, to be able to consciously forget the things I can’t quit remembering.

Yet, for all the complexities of the movies I’ve mentioned (well, maybe not Clean Slate), life is even more invariably complex and vague and difficult and rife with things we’d sometimes rather forget. We accrue memories, both good and bad, like packrats. We can’t help it; it’s just what we do. In the same vein, certain memories are stored, but forgotten. Some are kept close, like treasured heirlooms. The worst memories are tossed like yesterday’s newspaper, only to reappear as front page news on an otherwise spectacular day. We can suffocate and drown in these memories.

But the clean slate offers witness relocation. It promises the hope of an unencumbered past, a new residence minus the detritus of the past. And this is why I like these kinds of movies. I want the simplicity of a white-washed life.

Sure, you can make the case that yes, Jim Caviezel, er, Jesus, promises us just that. He’ll make all things new. I know that. I get that (sort of). But that’s not exactly what I’m talking about here.

If I woke up tomorrow with amnesia, completely forgetting everything that had happened in my life up to this point, who would I be? Would I be happy or hopeful? Would I still consider myself a Christian? Would I believe other people if they tried to tell me who I was? I think the answer to those questions is “no.” I’d have no identity whatsoever, and that would be terrifying. More than that, if I truly wanted a clean slate, I’d have to forget the days my nieces and nephew were born, or the day I had a very meaningful talk with my grandmother, or any other joyful, memorable, moment.

In the end, the clean slate is a dream best left to movie plotlines. In real life, for good and ill (because the ill oftentimes makes the good that much better by contrast), I’ll take, and cherish, all my memories (at least the ones I can remember).

Anywaysth. Onward.

TIGF #1 : Catfish Tuesdays
(Note: The ranking is not by priority, it’s by date recorded, and as this is the first TIGF, it gets to be #1. However, if ranked by priority, it’d probably be in the top ten.)

Catfish Tuesdays began as a mild addiction to a warm, friendly, delightful, and delicious place known as Catfish Parlour. When a co-worker and myself started finding ourselves there on a weekly basis, it became an institution. As a recent observer of Catfish Tuesday, I noted how my salivary glands started to sweat as soon as the thought of Catfish Tuesday entered my mind, an irrepressible Pavlovian response.

What’s so great about Catfish Tuesday? Oh, where to begin…

• The food, of course.
• The express line at lunch, wherein myself and my cohort-in-catfish-consumption will readily sneak by (and possibly make fun of) any rookies who can’t figure out the complexities of the express line.
• The buffet-style nature of the side dishes
• The service
• The old country ambiance
• The leglamp. Yes, the leglamp. Even though I’m not allowed to sit facing the leglamp (for fear of “temptation”), we still always sit in its vicinity. If you don’t know what the leglamp is, that’s probably all for the better. That way, you won’t be “tempted.”
• The corn fritters, what we’ve affectionately dubbed “critters.” This is actually the reason that Catfish Tuesdays are on Tuesday. It’s the only day the corn fritters are offered at lunch. Surprisingly, it took us a good few months to figure this out, despite the fact that it’s noted on their menu.
• The bad jokes printed on their receipts, to which we devote entirely too much brain power to. For example, today’s was “Why are circles so smart?” I thought I had the answer (and I still think it’s a good answer): Because they’ve been around forever. However, that was wrong. The correct answer is: Because they have 360 degrees. Butt, every now and then a good one rears its head: “What happened when the butcher backed into his meat grinder?” Answer: “He got a little behind in his work.”

These are the things that make Catfish Tuesdays great. What makes them awesome is the time I get to spend with a good friend, talking about life and work and faith. Feel free to join us any Tuesday; just know that we’ll probably make fun of you if you don’t know about the express line.

So, do you have a weekly dining obsession? If so, do share. And while you don’t have to be as detailed, you do have to relate why it’s a weekly haunt for you.

Undercover Boss is a show where the boss of a major corporation goes to work at the ground level of his/her business. The first episode of Undercover Boss follows President and COO of Waste Management, Larry O’Donnell, as he dons the uniform of an entry-level employee at his own company. Larry, a.k.a. Randy, works five different jobs in five separate areas of his company, from recycling remover and landfill trash collector, to garbage truck ride-along and cleaner of port-a-potties. Along the way, he meets and works for the very same people that work for him. None of them know his true identity. Consequently, his employees hold nothing in reserve in regards to their honest opinions on their jobs and their company.

Read the rest at RelevantMagazine.com…

I was walking along a path with two friends — the sun was setting — suddenly the sky turned blood red — I paused, feeling exhausted, and leaned on the fence — there was blood and tongues of fire above the blue-black fjord and the city — my friends walked on, and I stood there trembling with anxiety — and I sensed an infinite scream passing through nature.

…an infinite scream passing through nature. That’s terrifying.

It was a year ago today that I wept uncontrollably for everything that was breaking around me. We call it a broken heart for a reason, and I felt as if that muscle inside my chest had been severed, with its separate halves wrenching apart, causing my entire body to split down the middle were it not for the glue of  all-encompassing pain. That may sound entirely too melodramatic, but the words I used to describe that day, on the day that it happened, included convulsive, aching, and despair. It was like nothing I knew a human could experience. In retrospect, it was the the darkest valley of this journey.

Munch’s “infinite scream” had passed through me. I fear it must pass through us all, eventually. For me, it was the sudden and brutal realization that I was not the sole creator of my own destiny and that I cannot control the actions or wills of other people. It was hopelessness borne of desperation, awash in bitter tears. It was flailing hands to an uncaring universe, selfish cries of “Why me?!” to a silent God.

But what if that’s only part of the story? What if the “infinite scream” really originated, in part, from the only infinite Being? What if the scream, that unearthly and primal sound that sputtered from my soul exactly a year ago, was God’s rage at the injustice and the pain and the chaos and the hurt and the confusion and the sorrow of the entire ordeal, for all parties involved? What if that’s His infinite scream, shouted at the dawn of time, coursing through our lives at times of utmost despair, echoing throughout creation, a wrenching pain leaving a lasting scar, like a sword to a side of flesh.

My God, my God…

What if His seeming silence… is because He’s been screaming with you?