Everyone a Child

It rises like a small mountain just outside the city. Every kind of garbage is piled here. From rotten food scraps to metal bins filled with chemicals. Broken furniture and rusted hunks of old cars, all covered in dirt and sand, along with the carrion eaters who squawk and circle above it like a dead carcass. The fetid stench is made worse by the blistering heat and extends miles past the villages. On any given day however, the hill will be covered with something else: children. Phnom Penh's municipal rubbish dump outside of Cambodia is home to hundreds of families who live on and around the 100-acre site, making their meager living from the materials they collect on the steaming rubbish heap. The children swarm across the broken, fragmented piles in their bare feet. Some carry tin pails, their tiny fingers dirty and weathered as they dig, hoping to provide food for their families. If the children are able to collect enough pieces of metal, glass and plastic, they'll be able to sell them for about ten dollars a month in the city. A kilogram of plastic or a kilogram of iron and glass will get ten cents. But these slim pickings are all these families have. Many of them arrived in Phnom Penh from the rural provinces in the hope of finding better work, only to discover their only option was to join those foraging for rubbish. Most of the children will spend twelve hours on the hill before they come home, and their childhood will be defined by their time there. A few of them are playing tag, mindless of the toxic waste and shattered edges despite their naked limbs. They are, after all, just kids.

***

"He's just a kid. What do you expect?"
The woman wore a wide white hat and a fitted mauve sweater. A wide, studded belt and tight, expensive looking jeans, along with knee high black leather boots. The perfume was strong and sweet, and just standing in front of her felt like I was taking a wet shower. It was the beginning of April, and I'd stopped at the playground on my way home to visit with some of the kids.

"Well, he was running around and bothering the other kids." I said. "He's picking on them, and I thought you'd want to know."

The woman snorted as she watched her boy run to the swings.

"He's only nine. Besides, who died and made you principal of the playground."

"I work at this school, ma'am. I work with some of those kids."

"Yes, well, school's over isn't it?" She said, lifting her nose, which I was sure had seen the edge of a scalpel.

I nodded and went over to say goodbye to some of my students. I told them to stay away from the young bully, and watched the woman's son as he clambered up the spider-set alone. With a sigh, I headed for my car. I felt sorry for the boy, because I knew what would happen as he got older. If he didn't figure it out on his own, he'd be spending a lot of his life wondering why he had no friends. I glanced back at the mother, who was standing with one hand on her hips while the other held a cigarette loosely between her fingers. When I grow up I want to be a cliché. I sighed and headed out. The mother was right about one thing, they were just kids. There was always a chance that her boy would grow out his bullying, and that he would change when he was older. Everybody had to grow up sometime, didn't they?

***

A lot of my friends have children now, and whenever I go visit I'm always amazed at the changes. By their size. Their language skills. The way they see the world. Often it feels like they are completely different humans. That it's expected makes it no less revelatory. Their brains and bodies grow as they mature. Slowly they learn to deal with abstract concepts and the psychological complexities of life. As adults and parents, we often talk often about the changes that occur in a child's life over a decade, from grade four to high school graduation. Unfortunately, one of the most prevalent and persistent myths in our society is that following childhood, once we have reached a certain age, we will act in a certain manner befitting our supposed physical and psychological maturity. We even give it a name (Adulthood). Most civilizations have done this for the purposes of law and government, and in ancient times, for breeding and marriage. It is practical and, to most observers, makes perfect sense. Unfortunately, while we may have reached an age where we can understand abstract concepts and produce children, there is no evidence to suggest that we have 'grown up.' In fact, most of the evidence points to the contrary. Studies indicate that not only do we continue to mature physically, but that we will continue to develop psychologically and emotionally, continually encoding our brain with new experiences and new information. At no time in our life are we anything like we were ten years ago, and the changes are just as radical, if not always as easily spotted.

Don't believe me? In the next ten years you will most likely vote for a different political party. Most of us will be involved in a different romantic relationship, will have moved at least once, will work at a different job or career, will have said good bye to old friends and made new ones, will have different opinions on sensitive subjects such as sex or money or religion, will worship at a new/different church or no longer worship at all, will have made or lost a substantial amount of money, and will have completely different ideas on how the world works and what it all means. And for those of us who do not experience any of those things, so the paradox goes, we will be considered to not only have a boring life, but to have not lived at all.

***

I couldn't live without her. I looked around my empty living room and stared back down at the pages in front of me. I'd started journaling the year before to try and help me figure things out, but the words meant to give me comfort gave me no relief at all. All I felt was the aching loneliness. The house was quiet, except for the hum of the wood stove and the calls of the loons from across the lake. I moved to the window, where I could watch the warm breeze rustle the water gently against the dock. It was my last semester in school, and the cottage I was renting had proved to be something of a find. Only twenty minutes from campus, it was isolated and quiet, a perfect place to study, and a perfect place for misery. Especially if the girl you loved, your first love, had just ripped your heart open with the rusty blade of an email.

She'd come back, though. She had to come back. I'd prayed for it, and God had answered. I was sure of it. I'd even written it down in my journal, so it had to be true. God was in the business of healing. I was a believer, believed all the stuff I'd been told to believe and even more than I'd been taught. I was fervent and passionate and knew without question that so long as I prayed and had the faith of a mustard seed, (a really, really small seed that grew into a huge plant) God would hear me. In fact, I'd even told my professors that I had the faith to move mountains. I hadn't done it yet, but I would. For now, I'd settle for my girl and getting things back to the way they were supposed to be. Yup. I was going to get it all back. I'd prayed and God had told me.

I took a deep breath and headed back to the couch. Despite my prayers, prayers made righteous and true by my faith, a little voice whispered that the break up had nothing to do with faith, but something else entirely.

"Bah! Everything is about faith!" I said, my voice loud in the empty house. "I just have to keep praying."

That week I went to the school bookstore and checked out a tiny book by Gary Smalley, If Only He Knew. One of my older (and wiser) married friends had recommended it. I started reading it in the bookstore and couldn't put it down. I paid for it and immediately headed to the library. Maybe it wasn't all about faith. For one thing, women were so different from men. It was like, they were totally different! Not only that, but everything they did was in direct response to what I did. I was the spiritual leader. I was supposed to set the example. I put down the book to think about what I'd read. I'd totally failed my girlfriend. It was a heart breaking read, but I forced myself to keep reading. When I came to a chapter that contained a list of 100 things men needed to be doing in their relationship, I pulled out my highlighter. It was time to get serious. I read through the list and marked every item that I hadn't done. It took a while, but at the end I counted them out, and I'd come up with a definitive checklist of fifty two things.

I headed to the computer room and sent my girl the longest email I'd ever written. I mentioned ever single one of the 52 items, with an explanation for each, and promised that in the future I would be the man. I would be the leader I was supposed to be so that she could be the woman God had made her to be. Smiling, I whispered a prayer of thanks and clicked Send. An email had torn me apart, and an email would redeem me. Hmmm. There was a sermon in there somewhere, I thought. Women were different, and I still had some stuff to learn, but Gary Smalley had helped me figure out the most important thing. Me being The Man allowed her to be The Woman.

For the next two weeks I fasted and prayed and waited eagerly for a return email or a phone call. It never came. The next month I finally got a short email from my girl. She'd been busy with her school but she was enjoying her classes. Her family was fine. She hoped all was well. How was I doing?

***

I stared at the question on the open window of my MSN Messenger but didn't type a response. The light filtered dimly from my lamp in the corner. A single, empty beer bottle balanced precariously on top of my computer tower. Everything else was quiet. I'd started chatting with Rose in one the Christian chat rooms, and she'd decided that her personal mission was to encourage me. I wasn't sure what to think, but at this point, it was nice to have someone to talk to, even if I didn't agree with her theology.

Jesus loves you, Steve.

I bent to the keyboard and finally typed my response.

I'm pretty sure God doesn't know I exist. Which is okay. The feeling is mutual. How are you doing?

Don't change the subject, Steve. I know things aren't good right now, but it will get better, I promise.

All I need to do is pray, right? …Sorry. Crappy day.

I know. I'm sorry it wasn't better.

Any luck with the doctor? I asked.

This time it was her turn to take a while to respond.

No. Maybe I'm not supposed to have children. God knows how much I want to be a mother, but maybe I just have to wait a little longer.

Rose lived in southern Alabama. She and her husband had been married for ten years, and trying to have kids for the past three. It didn't look good. Which was totally stupid, of course. I'd been a youth worker for the past eight years, and most of the kids I dealt with, like the ones at the group home where I was currently employed, came mostly from homes where they were unwanted. God is stupid, I thought. I didn't type it though, because Rose deserved better than that.

That sucks, Rose.

Will you pray for me?

I wanted to tell her that prayer was about as effective as throwing water on a grease fire to put it out, but that somehow seemed cruel.

Okay.

Thank you. Hey, I have to go. My husband says hello. We're praying for you.

Thanks, Rose. TTYL.

I stretched and moved from the computer to turn on the TV. Another night in paradise. I still wasn't sure how my marriage had fallen apart so quickly. What really pissed me off was that a couple who so desperately wanted kids couldn't have them. I dealt with jerk offs every day who seemed to have them at will and then treated them like crap. God is stupid, I thought. This whole world is stupid. I picked up the remote and switched over to the late game.

***

It wasn't like watching a bad TV show, I thought, you couldn't just change the channel. Dan had finished telling me what had happened, and he looked a bit lost as he sipped his coffee. I hadn't understood it when I was his age either. Back then, everyone was always promising change, and it was always easy. Buy this book. Come to this church. Take this course. Be better in ten weeks or ten steps or ten minutes. As young adult, the coolest feeling was this idea of possibility, you know. Like anything was possible. We just had to get things right, which wasn't a problem because there were a million shows and books and people spouting off about how easy things were. Fix your marriage. Fix your finances. Fix your kids. Fix your health. Even Oprah had gone from dramatic shows about fighting and stuff and become this self-help guru. There was definitely money in the "fix-it" world.

"It's going to take some time, pal." I said. "Diane probably won't come back. I'm not sure that she should."

"What does she want, Steve? I don't get it."

"Well, what do you want. She probably wants the same thing."

He scratched the mass of curls on his head.

"She's a girl. It's totally different."

"No it ain't." I said. "Listen, as long as you think girls are different, you're going to have problems. I've learned THAT much. You treat her like she's your possession."

He shook his head as if I was speaking Latin or telling him two plus two was sixteen. I understood though. I'd done the same thing when I was twenty-one.

"I thought we were friends, Steve."

"We are. Doesn't mean you gotta act like an idiot." I paused. "Look, I was an idiot when I was younger, and now that I'm old, I'm still an idiot. But what I do know is that the choices you make now are gonna affect you down the road. A lot of people never figure this out. Stuff happens and they get upset but then keep doing the same thing. Most of the time it's because they want their life to change, like, right away. And when nothing happens right away, they give up. And then they complain about their life when they're old like me. And you know, we're all like that in some ways. Ain't one person who's got it all figured out, just people who think they have."

We chatted for a while longer, and he told me he'd email later in the week. I told him I was there if he needed me. As a young adult, I'd always been kind of intimidated by older leaders because most of them were so sure about everything. That's why I made sure that Dan knew I didn't have all the answers. When I was nineteen, I'd just started going to church again. They told me I was saved. They told me that since I'd asked forgiveness God loved me forever and I had a mansion coming when I died. I was really liking the whole church thing, but I still couldn't figure out how all these people knew that they were right about God. All these adults singing and praying and talking about Jesus. Lots of talking. And all of it with that tone, you know, that teacher tone people use when they're reassuring one another that they're right. Anyway, I couldn't figure out how they could be so sure about everything, so I asked my pastor. He told me that he knew it in his knower. I said, you know that you're right about God in your knower? And he said, yes, that when we knew God we knew it in our knower. I asked him what happened if we didn't know it in our knower. He said that eventually I would. And that if I didn't know it in my knower that maybe I needed to spend more time at church so I would know it. Know God, I asked him. No, he said, know that I was right about God in my knower.

I kind of stopped asking questions after that. Especially since I didn't know it in my knower. In fact, the more I knew, the less sure I became. It wasn't that I didn't believe in God, although I wasn't even sure how that worked anymore, I just found it tough to give closed answers. You know what I'm talking about; those tiny statements that people say when they think they know stuff that doesn't allow you to answer. As I got older though, I realized that while these people thought they were sure about everything, there were gaping holes between their life and their beliefs. It made no sense. Worse, it was as if they couldn't see it. It was like that fairytale about the Emperor's Clothes, the one where he's naked but nobody will tell him that he's naked because he's the Emperor. I felt like I was walking around a bunch of people who were always telling me about their clothing and why their clothes were the best. Religious clothes. Science clothes. Relational clothes. Business clothes. Everyone was telling me what they were wearing, and they were all naked. I figured it didn't matter though, because pretty soon I'd be an adult and it wouldn't be like that anymore. The good thing about growing up was that people didn't look at you like you were a child.

***

There's a story in the Bible where Jesus says we're all supposed to be like children. That the only way to understand God is to be like a kid. The Bible has a lot of good stories, but I'd always thought that this one was kind of dumb. I'm not saying that Jesus was wrong or whatever, but he clearly never spent time as a youth worker. Adults and kids are really different.

I worked at an elementary school for a while, and most days I had to chaperone outside during recess. Kids were always running up to me, telling on their friends, saying silly stuff about stuff that didn't matter like the rules of these games they made up or why their snack was better. They'd call each other names and complain about this person or that person and why they were right and so and so was wrong. And that was just during recess. It was pretty annoying. I like kids, but by Fridays I was always tired.

That's why I think the idea about coming to God like a child is so ridiculous. As an adult, I'm much bigger, can drive a car, and can stay up as late as I want. It's totally different. I don't think Jesus knew what he was talking about. As I said, I'm not trying to be mean, but he was always hanging out with grown-ups. What would he know about kids?

***

It's uncomfortable being young. That's the biggest thing I remember about my childhood. I was never, truly comfortable, because there was always someone bigger than me who could tell me what was "really going on." And every time I learned something, I would learn something else that would make the earlier thing I learned not seem right anymore. The sad thing is that it's still happening. When I think back to what I knew five years ago, I realize that I didn't really know anything, I merely perceived that I knew things. Oh, some things haven't changed, but my perception of things has changed in almost every way. Especially my perception of knowledge. The more I've learned, the less I know, and yet somehow, it feels like I'm making progress.

Adulthood, it seems then, is an enlarging of our childhood. Enlarging in that it allows us to learn more, and as we do, to become more childlike through our knowledge. It is a form of becoming less by understanding more. The one who knows they are naked is infinitely more equipped to handle life than the one who believes they are fully dressed, aren't they? How else do we explain our actions? How else do we explain a world where two billion people would not go hungry if, for example, a country like the United States stopped wearing makeup for a year. Or a country like China had spent the money they put towards the Beijing Olympics towards their poor. How else do we explain a world where people steal from one another, betray one another, lie and cheat and browbeat and berate. A world where families abandon each other, offering excuses but no apologies.

We call people 'adults' when they reach a certain age. We give them rights and privileges, as befitting their new status. We give them expectations about what life is and what it should be. And yet, nothing changes, does it?

I don't know. Maybe Jesus is right. Maybe we not only need to approach God as if we're children, but in doing so, remember that everyone else is a child too. It's funny, but when a kid misbehaves, it's easy for me to forgive them. They're just kids, you know. It doesn't mean there aren't consequences, but it doesn't make me nearly as angry as when an "adult" screws up. I always think they should know better. But here's the thing: if you haven't experienced something, you're no different than a child, right? Not really. And what would happen if we all looked at each other as kids? As if we didn't have all the answers? As if we weren't supposed to know everything and it was okay? And what if we did approach God as a child? What if we trusted that He loved us and that he would help us to find our way? I'll be honest, I'm not sure it would work or whether or not it would matter. But then, I'm just a kid. I'm not sure about anything.

-Steve

Update, Goals and a Quiet Weekend

Hi Everyone,

I normally don't post an update as a blog, but I wanted to thank everyone for their comments and emails following the last article. As I've said many times on this site, disagreement is not a bad thing, my goal is simply to make you think and perhaps reflect on life in a different manner.

Speaking of which, I was challenged this week by a few articles about setting goals and how important it is in creating purpose for our life. As a personal trainer, I do this with my clients on a regular basis. It's not only necessary to measure improvement, but to improve at all. And yet, despite my familiarity with the process, I've noticed a distinct lack of goals in other areas of my life. Yes, I'm writing a novel, and the goal is to finish it and sell it. And I'm working on other articles that I hope to have published. There are too many other areas however, that I've left vague and undefined, and the days I am bogged down by malaise this absence is made very clear.

What do I want to accomplish in the next five years? Where do I see myself? Where do I want to be working? What would be an ideal situation for me? What does God want for me and from me? These are the questions I haven't answered lately, not clearly with a pen and paper. So this weekend I'll be taking the time to meditate and pray about where I am and where I'm going. My challenge for you is to join me, and perhaps send me an email or comment about how it went. Life in this culture is very fast, and if you're in a big city like Toronto, it's even faster. And it's easy to get swamped by worries and bills and work and kids and everything else. Why not take half a day to spent quietly thinking about what you want to accomplish and where you're going. Whether you're 63 or 33 or 23, you still need to be moving forward. There are still things for you to be working towards. Without them, we begin to drift like ice floes, subject to every wave and storm.

(And yes, I'm aware of Valentine's Day. To be honest, I'm ambivalent about the holiday. On the one hand, it's an opportunity/excuse for you to do something nice for your spouse. On the other hand, if your spouse is expecting something great or romantic on Valentine's Day, there's a good chance we're letting our relationship idle the rest of the time. Remember, any day is a good day to be thankful for the people you love. Flowers are always nice. (I prefer lilacs, but that's just me.) And time spent listening and encouraging one another is always within our reach.)

In regards to the next article, it's about ¾ finished. Hopefully it will spark as much thoughtful debate as the previous ones. I've also had questions lately about the time it takes me to compose an article. Generally, it's about two weeks. (The normal ones, not an update like this) As a rule, I read about five books at a time and spend at least two hours a day reading things online, all of which are woven into the long (hopefully) cogent pieces in front of you.

By the way, a number of people have mentioned to me this past month that they print out the blogs so they can take their time to read them, and I've again been asked about the possibility of forming a series of articles into a book. Frankly, I'm stunned and humbled that some of you enjoy the work that much. At this stage however, I have no plans to put these articles into book form, so we'll have to make do with printing them out individually. For those of you who read my work as a note on Facebook, I believe it's easier to print from my website (www.stephenburns.ca) and if you'd like a copy from Microsoft Word, I'd be happy to email it to you. Stephenrburns@gmail.com

Thanks again for your readership, your comments, your encouragement and criticism. The work is a joy to me.

-Steve

P.S. As mentioned elsewhere on this site, I keep the videos I post, you just have to scroll down and check the left hand side. The latest is from J.K. Rowling on the benefits of failure. Excellent stuff.

P.S. II One of the most surprising things I heard this month was that some of you were using the articles as group devotion/discussion pieces. If that's the case, and you'd like some possible discussion questions for small group work or personal study, I'd be happy to send you some. Simply send me an email, and let me know which blog(s) you're interested in, and I'll get back to you. As for everything on In Search of a Hero, there's no charge, only the hope that you'll continue to think and work towards a life of faith and hope. Blessings…

Why is Everyone so Angry?

They were being obvious about it. And in Starbucks of all places. Not to everyone of course, but to a trained observer like me it was clear that they weren't happy. (Him: I thought you wanted to order something light. Her: I did. I married you. Him: Why would you say that? Her: Because I'm so happy.) They were about forty five, him in a blue suit, and her wearing a dark skirt and white blouse and a glittering necklace that appeared to be made up of tiny disco balls. They continued their sniping in front of the barista, who was pointedly ignoring their little war. When they were finished I stepped forward and ordered in a friendly, responsible manner. I asked about the price increase. Wasn't the coffee expensive enough already? The barista was polite and said she didn't drink coffee. How can you work at Starbucks and not drink coffee I asked her. She seemed uncomfortable, but I reassured her there were many things on the menu. I still felt sorry for the girl having to deal with the rude couple in front of me, who were clearly very angry and taking it out on others. The barista handed me my coffee, but I asked her to fill it up a bit more. What were they teaching these young people nowadays? Couldn't they make a simple coffee? I smiled and told her that the coffee wasn't worth the new price, but the free refills meant that it was still affordable. She looked kind of sick as I said goodbye and I frowned at the couple now sitting at a table. Look what they'd done. Idiots.

I spent the next hour trying to write, but every time I looked up, the angry couple was either exchanging silent glares or condescending looks at some of the other patrons. The nerve. I packed up my laptop, and shot them a look as I left, just to make sure they knew that I knew what it was they were doing and that I didn't approve. On my way home, a blue civic crossed in front of me, and I laid on the horn to let them know I didn't appreciate it. I waited anxiously at the light on the final turn, waiting to turn left and still upset about being cut off. Thankfully, I was at the front of the line. There were so many bad drivers! What were they doing, just handing out driver's licenses now? Was it possible to have just a single, peaceful day filled with people raised properly. With manners? A horn sounded and I looked up, realizing too late that my advance green arrow had flashed a few seconds ago and was already turning yellow. I slammed my Yaris into gear and turned the corner, surprised when the driver behind me whipped past me as I straightened out, giving me the finger. I glared at him, but didn't respond. I was too polite for that kind of garbage. What was he doing, anyway? I'd made a simple mistake. It wasn't a big deal. I shook my head as I pulled into our underground parking. It was like an epidemic, I thought. So many angry people.

When I walked in, my wife greeted me with a hug and then stepped back.

"What's wrong?"

"Oh, just people. The usual." I said.

"No. Not that. Why are you so angry?"

***

When I was young it was easy to spot people who were angry. They were the ones with the red faces and loud voices. The people who were quiet and respectful were the ones in control. I always wanted to be one of the quiet people, someone able to withstand anything without losing control, but I was never really good at it. Controlling my emotions was a kind of pipe dream, and I'd be laughing hysterically one moment, and a few minutes later, shaking with anger. Sometimes it was directed at other people. Sometimes at myself. When I was fifteen I pulled myself from basketball practice because I wasn't playing as well as I thought I should. The coach forced me to go back in because we only had nine guys, and you needed ten to scrimmage. I was mad at him for about a week.

I used to look up to the leaders at school, the tall, cool guys who wore double earrings and always had girls around them, and tried to imitate them. I got pretty good at it, too. I'd swear and curse and try not to let anything touch my emotions.

Everything was cool.

Whatever.

No worries.

All good.

By not caring, I raised my stock, and more important, my level of control. But then something would happen. I'd notice the way the football guys were ignoring one of the bench guys on the team, or spend some time with the 'un-cool' members of the school band, and my façade would falter. Liking people sucked. When I exposed the part of me that cared, it inevitably got stomped on. It was as if my anger was a shield. Not a good shield though, because after a while being 'cool' kind of sucked, too. I had this kind of empty thing going on inside that was okay when people were around, but when I was alone, it was really lonely.

***

I was never a big fan of the news when I was a kid. It was so boring. In fact, it seemed impossible to make it more boring. A pretty head looking into the camera and talking with pictures over their shoulder. I could never figure out why so many adults watched that stuff. It wasn't like the news changed. Someone died. Someone stole something. Someone missing. Comments from government people about why the other government people were jerks and totally wrong and why they were great people and patriotic and completely right. Someone else dying. Someone else missing. A squirrel or a dog on water skis. Weather. And then sports, which they put last to make sure that everyone heard all of the boring stuff first.

But since I'm an adult now, at least according to my birth certificate, I try to watch the news. Fortunately, it's much more exciting these days. Sometimes they have the news readers sit in a semi circle. Or they put them behind the desk or a couch. The big change though, is how often they argue. My favorite is Fox News because whenever I flip to it someone is accusing someone else of something horrible and it's all very dramatic. The past year I've been following the story about the whole Boston Tea Party thing. These people keep gathering outside the White House and accusing the President of being Hitler and everyone moving to Germany or something. I'm not sure why they keep gathering, but from what I can tell there are thirty million Americans who want to go to the hospital and these people don't think they should go. Fox keeps interviewing these people who get red and spit into the camera and shake their fist. They're angry, and I guess that's not good, but it sure makes exciting television. The problem is that even the people who aren't on television are angry. According to my wife though, some days I'm angry too, and what I can't figure out, is why.

***

I'd been in ministry for about four months when my senior pastor first used the word 'potential.' "You have great potential, Steve. The most I've ever seen." Since he'd been a pastor for about a hundred and seventy years (he was pretty old) and worked in twenty different countries, I took it as high praise. All I had to do now, I remember thinking, was fulfill my potential. I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do exactly, but if I worked hard enough, I knew that I could do it. Back then, I was young and all about changing the world. I was serious about it, too. If someone asked me what I was doing, I told them that I was changing the world. Sometimes people frowned when I said it, but I figured they were lazy and not as talented as I was, so I ignored them. Most of the people in my congregation clapped when I said I was changing the world. They encouraged me and told me I had great potential.

The thing about changing the world is that while it's a really good idea, it's a lot of work. I mean, wow, it's tiring. And people who know you're changing the world and who are supposed to be on your side never seem to realize that they have to do their part. I remember this time we were supposed to have a board meeting for the so-called church leaders, but two of them couldn't make it so they cancelled THE ENTIRE MEETING. What? I was furious, and I stormed into my senior pastor's office to question him about it. No big deal, he said. Well, what about punishment? Should these people even be leaders? He smiled and said that I needed to be patient. Patient? How could we be patient? The world was dying and everyone was going to burn for all eternity and the world would never ever change if we kept up at this glacial pace! We were trying to change the world! Wasn't that God's plan, the one you preached every Sunday? That we were God's only option to save humanity? He smiled and told me to go home, but I was really mad.

For the next year and a half, I worked harder than ever, but eventually I left the church because changing the world was too hard. Some people tried to reassure me that the church wasn't all about numbers, but everyone knew that was what the losers always said. If "you weren't growing, you were dying". That's why the best selling books for ministers were always written by winners with massive congregations and wives that looked like movie stars. I wasn't even sure that I'd helped the members of my small group, let alone the world. What I did know was that I hadn't fulfilled a single bit of my great potential. I was a failure. A lot of people were going to burn and stink like ash and be in pain for all eternity because I hadn't done my part.

After that it became tough to do any kind of ministry. I had all of this potential, so many people had told me so, and yet I didn't know what to do with it and was terrified to waste it. I was still excited about changing the world, but less then I had been. I'd start a new ministry or a new venture and then watch helplessly while other people dismantled it because they couldn't commit or didn't want to commit or thought there were better ideas worth pursuing. Sometimes I shot the idea down myself because I didn't want to do anything less than fulfilling my great potential or got busy or changed my mind. It was pretty frustrating to watch the world reject your attempt to change it, so I just kind of stopped.

***

Not everybody wants to change the world. Some people think that the world is perfect the way it is now. I don't know any of these people, but I'm sure they exist. Most of us though, are uncomfortable sometimes, whether it's the government or relationships or race relations or gender prejudice or something else. If you listen to talk shows, which I only recommend if you're inebriated or super mellow, most listeners are interested in going back. You know, back to when things were really different. Of course, no one ever wants to go forward. Going forward means stuff will change, and most of us don't want that. So we're kind of stuck. Can't go back. Don't want to go forward. And we all want our lives to change.

I think being human often feels like you're wearing the wrong clothes. Either they're too small or too big or belong to someone else. And for all the solutions that we offer one another, it always comes down to how much we're willing to spend. Even then, the Gucci life is just as uncomfortable as the Goodwill life, because the sizes they offer are all the same.

And none of them fit.

***

A couple of years ago I had to go this retreat for one of my courses at Seminary. It was a Catholic retreat center, but our school rented it out and they didn't ask us what we believed, which was fortunate because we didn't really agree with the Catholics about anything important. Talk about a church that was irrelevant. And boring. They still sang hymns from a hymnbook, and expected you to say the same stuff every week. Going to Mass was like watching a newscast from the 1970's. If they could sign up Will Ferrell to be a priest, then they'd have something, but as it was, completely irrelevant.

Still, the place was nice. Quiet. No TV or radio or internet. No buzz on the latest news or movie updates or celebrity arrests. On the Sunday, they even scheduled a five hour segment where we supposed to go five hours without speaking. Some of the other students, many of whom were already pastors, saw how ridiculous this idea was and brought their cell phones, using the quiet time effectively to catch up on their Facebook and call their work and text their friends. I hadn't brought my cell phone, so I ended up walking around with a couple of my friends quietly by the lake. Like I said, I wasn't thinking. I had a lot more catching up to do the next day when we got back.

***

Sometimes I'm amazed that Christianity exists. By any account, Jesus was a total failure. He only had twelve guys following him, and pretty much everyone abandoned him when the Romans killed him. That all turned around when he came back to life and showed them the holes in his hands from the nails. That kind of story spreads pretty quick. I think about that sometimes because I think it would be cool if I could be like Jesus. I'm pretty sure that I could help twelve people. Unfortunately, I'm not the Son of God so I've been adding as many friends as I can on my Facebook and working hard to expand my influence. It kind of sucks though, because every time I open my email or MySpace or Facebook, I think of so many people I haven't written in a while and feel guilty about it. I really want to help more people, do a better job caring about people, but most of the time – between work and writing and my wife – I don't seem to have much time. All this great potential that God gave me is wasting away, and now that I'm older I can't just say that it will happen in the future. Today is the future. When I think about it too much I get upset and don't want to help anyone.

***

Andy Crouch is this writer I really like. He says a lot of smart things in a way that's easy for someone like me to understand. Anyway, he says that part of the reason we're so angry is that we're always looking for more power. He says that when we say we want to change the world, what we're really saying is that we want to change the culture. He compares Mother Theresa and Princess Diana, who died the same week. He says that both of them had cultural power, but that most of us want Diana's power. We all want to be a beautiful and rich princess, but for most of us that will never happen. He also says that anyone can have Mother Theresa's power, which would be much less frustrating, but that most of us don't want it because it means we have to be servants and give up late night television and eating out.

***

"I guess I'm just frustrated." I said to my wife, trying to answer her question honestly.

"But why?"

"Because I feel…" My voice trailed off as I thought about why I was so angry. Unlike my younger days, I have a great deal of control now when I'm upset. Instead of lashing out, I swallow the anger and do my best to bury it. I don't want to hurt people, and I don't want to take it out on anyone either. But anger always seems to find a way out if we don't face it. If we are unwilling to hold it up and examine where it comes from and why it's there, it will come out, whether we like it or not.

I've spent a great deal of time lately looking at the source of my anger, and doing my best to reconcile some of my beliefs with the realities and tragedies of life. I'll be honest; I'm not sure how I'm doing. The self help books talk a lot about the "source" of our anger, which I think is a bit of hooey because most of us know why we're angry, we're just too scared or too worried about the consequences to admit it. When I think about what people go through each day and why we act the way we do, I'm not convinced that finding the source of our anger is about blame. About who put it there. This is true whether it was an institution, like a school or a church, or something more personal like our parents or a bad romantic relationship. I think that's only part of it. Instead, I'm inclined towards the notion that our anger must be understood as a blend of cultural and personal expectations, both failed and achieved, along with the ridiculous amount of personal tragedies that make up the human experience. I also believe that it's something of a lifelong process, which, no matter how you look at it, totally sucks.

***

I know I've mentioned this before, but I'm aware that my faith is ridiculous. It's absolutely absurd to believe that a Jewish Rabbi who was executed by the Romans is somehow the Savior of the world. Especially when you look at a lot of his followers, including me. And yet, his story, more than any other, strikes me as true. Or at least too absurd to be easily dismissed. It isn't the books or TV shows or get-better-now church slogans that do it either. More, I think it is this strange notion that with only twelve followers, a bit of support from a few others, and a three year ministry cut short by a tortured execution, if Jesus was raised from the dead, he would have every reason to behave in a vindictive manner. (Like I said, a lot of times his followers seem angrier about it than everyone else. I don't know, maybe those people were told a different story.) Instead, he offered forgiveness. And grace. In a world that not only feels angry, but uses that anger to rape and steal and kill and make life miserable for others, there is something striking in the offer of genuine forgiveness, something that just won't let me go.

I think we all have angry moments. The world is an upsetting place to be caught in, and life as a human, no matter where you are, is hard. But understanding where that anger comes from can make a difference, along with a sturdy notion of hope about a God who loves us, one that refuses to be constrained by cheap cliches, harsh rhetoric and smarmy marketing slogans.

These days I'm learning my limitations. Trying to be a little more Mother Theresa and a little less the beautiful princess. I may not be able to change the world, but as today breathes into tomorrow, I'll work on myself, and from there, see what I can do to help.

-Steve

Is Change Really Possible?

 

    I used to believe that change was possible for everyone. That for someone going through hard times it wasn't that difficult to make their lives better. All they had to do was, well, change it. I was younger then, and the world was a very different place. I didn't know about relationships or loyalties, addictions or abuse, finances or psychology or personality types. What I knew was that we all had choices; we just had to make good ones. At the time, I was a twenty-one year old pastor who believed that Jesus could change anyone's story. (Come to church and see what God can do in your life!) I was so excited by this possibility that it consumed me. I spent every waking minute devising ways to communicate this life-altering message to people. I handed out tracts and knocked on doors. I held youth events and youth meetings. I spoke to old friends and made new ones. People came and went. Some bought into what I was saying and came to church and good things happened. Others came to church and heard mean things about who they were and why they weren't good enough and left. Through it all, I was steadfast in my principles. There was no such thing as being inappropriate when it came to sharing my beliefs, because I knew it could change a person's life.

I remember meeting an old high school acquaintance in the parking lot of our local shopping mall. He was sitting in his car with his girlfriend, and he smiled when I stopped by to say hello. Within minutes I'd handed him a pamphlet explaining my life-changing message. His face wrinkled up as if he'd tasted something sour, and his girlfriend rolled her eyes. "Uh, that's great, Steve." He quickly put his car in gear and drove away. I hoped he would listen to what I'd said, but it didn't really matter. Whether he accepted it or not, at least now he knew how he could change his life.

The thing about preaching change is that sometimes you forget your own life. You get so intent on changing other people's lives that you start to think your life is perfect. That you are perfect. I don't think it's intentional, I think it's human and inevitable. The result however, isn't pretty, because with everyone you meet you start to think how they need change and what they can do to be better. You never say it, or even think it, maybe, but what you're really wondering is how they can be more like you.

***

    My friend Naomi is studying to be a counselor. She's tall and pretty and when you tell her about your life her eyes get really big and she listens so well you feel good about yourself. She's studying emotional narrative and story as her counseling major; how changing someone's story can change their life. Sometimes I don't understand what she's saying because she's smart and uses words that make me squint, but when she talks about it I am reminded of my own time when I was in ministry. A time when I used to believe that people could change if they'd only accept my story for them.

    Last week we were talking on her balcony, sipping wine and ignoring the cold wind like we were real Canadians.

    "Do you think people change?" I asked her.

    "Well," She said. "Personalities don't change, but people can. It is, however, a slow process."

    "So how do you help people change?" I asked.

    "Mostly I listen. Then I try to help them deal with the emotional narrative they find themselves in, and change it."

    I thought about that for a while, because it seemed a different answer than the one I'd used to hand out with cartoons on the backs of little papers to friends and strangers. I was also worried that I didn't believe people could change anymore, which scared me, because if people couldn't change I wasn't sure why we existed.

***

    During the three years I worked as a full time pastor, I never considered changing my life. Not really. Oh, I made promises to God to be less angry and more humble and be more regular with my giving, but mostly I felt like I had things under control. Everyone told me what a great pastor I was going to be and how much potential I had. I figured I was a dynamic personality because I wasn't afraid of public speaking and occasionally made people laugh. So the day my wife left me, after only eleven months of marriage, was not only unexpected, it was earth shattering. Though I didn't know it, I was about to change, and it wasn't because I wanted to or thought I needed it or sensed God's voice. I was about to inherit a new story, one that didn't make sense to me at all, but it was impossible for me to walk away from it because that new story was my life.

***

    My best friend Mark has a great life. I love his story. Whenever I tell him something like that he tells me not to glamorize it. I try not to, but his story is infinitely more interesting than mine. He also happens to be Naomi's husband. I go to their apartment every Monday night for football and some important male bonding, but most of the time I end up talking to Naomi on the balcony about God and change and her clients and my clients. Mark and I talk about those things too, but on Monday nights he thinks we should be watching the game and usually he yells at us to come in and tells us that we should be watching the game. But that's easy for him to say, his life is more exciting than mine.

    Three weeks ago he told me that he noticed a homeless woman outside Food Basics, a low end grocery store in the north end of the city that my friends and I frequent quite often. He told her to come inside with him, gave her an empty basket, and told her to fill it up. She followed him around for a while, until he gently pushed her towards doing her own shopping. Mark downplayed it when he mentioned it to me, although he and Naomi are both students and don't have very much money. As a rule, I have to practically drag these stories out of him, but I do it because nothing like that ever happens to me. For a time last year I did a few Mark-offs, (which shouldn't be confused with Mad-offs) talking to homeless people and strangers and even helping a few of them. I felt alive and strange and new, but then I forgot to think about it before my day started and began realizing how little I had in my bank account and how I would never get ahead and stopped doing it. Nothing like it has happened to me since. Most days I do not feel alive or new, and I find that I think about the past a lot.

***

    For a time my ex-wife and I put our marriage back together. I realized how much I'd acted like a jerk and started writing columns about how men shouldn't act like jerks. I even got a few letters from people in different countries asking me for marital advice and felt good and important. I started teaching them how they needed to change. I'd done it. They could do it. All they needed to do was listen to what I said.

    It didn't last though, and when my wife and I decided that the marriage was not going to work we talked about it and cried together for a long time. I cried because I'd miss her and felt bad about the whole thing. I cried because I felt relief and felt guilty that I felt relieved. And I cried because I knew that whatever hope I had of being a Christian 'star' who'd put his marriage back together (a VERY good story), was over, and suddenly I didn't have a story to tell. I had nothing to say, especially when I looked in the mirror and realized that if the best stories involved change and character transformation, I was a pretty terrible character. And my story sucked.

***

    I met Bethany about a year and a half ago. She is the daughter of two missionaries and grew up in Ethiopia. When I met her I didn't know that. I saw a beautiful girl walk past me on my break outside the Starbucks where I was working and somehow made her smile. She gave me her phone number. Three weeks later we had the God talk and she told me part of her story. I fell in love pretty quick, and for some reason she did too, and we were married this past year.

    Bethany has a great story, although she doesn't think so. She is finishing the second year of her program to be a paramedic. It is the toughest medic program in the country, and most days she is very tired. But she goes on the ambulance now, and takes calls and helps people. Twice she has come home and told me that she did CPR to help bring someone back to life. On those days her eyes glow and she bounces on her toes when she walks. Other days she comes home sad because she sees suffering and death and the bereavement of family members. On those days I hold her and she is quiet. Most days though, she loves what she does and tells me about it. She tells me about people who throw up on her or the other medics, the problems they have with certain medical conditions, and the rich people who call the ambulance for a ride. She tells me and her eyes glow. When people ask me how I'm doing, I usually tell them about Bethany because I love her story, or I'll tell them about Mark and Naomi because I love their story too.

***

    Being divorced and trained to be a minister is not fun. There are some things you can do as a pastor, some things that can happen to you for you to still be accepted as a church leader, but divorce is not one of them. If your marriage breaks down, people are not that interested in what you're saying about change, because it doesn't seem like you have it all together. Why would I want to change and be like you? You screwed up your marriage! So I stopped being a minister. I worked in group homes for a while, though I spent most of my time at Masconi's, a small pub down the street. I would bring my huge writing binder and set it on the bar and work on my latest novel. Sometimes the other regulars would 'contribute' to my book, and the next day I would find a page or two of swearing and sex slipped between the pages. The guys thought it was hilarious, and I pretended to be a good sport though I was usually annoyed. I would sip my beer with them and try to explain that I was creating art. That craft was important. That to be lost in the whirls of thematic difficulty meant nothing if the reader was somehow wakened from the unconscious dream. They would pretend to listen for a few minutes before changing the subject to the Raptors and what I thought about Vince Carter.

    For a long time I'd believed that Jesus could change people, but when my marriage ended I realized that he hadn't changed me at all and that maybe it was all a bunch of goop. Maybe people couldn't change. Maybe God didn't care. Maybe I'd always be the jerk I felt like when I thought about how I'd been with my wife and how I'd been at church. If I couldn't be a pastor, I needed a new story, so I decided to be a writer. Even if I couldn't change, I still needed something to do. Something to embrace. I'd started writing years before, but now I tried to live the life that I thought a writer was supposed to live. I wrote every day, and drank coffee and liquor and smoked cigarettes because all writers did those things, or so I thought. Even then I realized it was only partly about the actual writing, and that my life – what gave it meaning – was what mattered. I figured that if I could just get published, my life would change and it would be okay. Eventually I did get published, though I never sold any of my books, but nothing really changed, and I only managed to sell a couple of articles.

***

    The novel I'm writing now is about a young boy who is awkward and doesn't think too highly of himself. He is tall and shy and can't read or fight. His parents were both very important, but his father is dead and his mother is missing. He thinks he is slow and dumb because that's what he's been called his whole life and doesn't know that it isn't true. I call him Josh.

    I like Josh a lot, and even though I'm creating the story I find myself cheering for him. Cheering for him to find a new story. To find his story. And no, he's not like me. He's quiet while I talk a lot, although I guess we respond that way for the same reason. I like that his life is one filled with adventure, though I don't envy some of the things he's gone through, because they seem so sad to me. I like it that he is making new friends even as he escapes a group that is trying to kill him, but I feel sorry for him because he is young and is often lonely. His story is exciting and fresh. Mine isn't.

***

    I never went back into ministry, although I still read about Jesus a lot. I like how he reaches out people around him, how he makes them feel welcome and how he loves them despite their faults. I like it because I hope that's how God sees me, because I don't have a very good story and sometimes I worry that I will never change.

I have a web site where I write about spiritual things and the church. A few weeks ago, one of my readers commented, at length, how I'd grown increasingly cynical and narrow minded the past two years. I thought about what he said for a long time because I thought he was right.

On my web site I complain a lot about the suffering and injustice of the world, and I expel a lot of righteous indignation at men who think they're better than women and people who think they're better than other people. What I don't say is that there is hope or that everything will be okay. I don't say it because I don't know it, and I think I complain because I wish I was better, or at least had a better story. Instead, I spend most of my time writing my novel about Joshua and training people in the gym who want to be fit. I prepare my wife's lunches and try to do most of the cleaning in our apartment because her schedule is so busy. She's grateful and warm and there isn't much I wouldn't do just to see her smile. I like being helpful, and often I feel guilty because I don't make very much money. I don't hang out in bars anymore, although I spend an inordinate amount of time at Starbucks because I like to write there and it isn't as lonely as writing at home. I still find people fascinating and wish I could do more to help them. But every time I've tried to build my life around changing others, it's ended up in the toilet. I get proud and arrogant and end up talking down to people who seem more like Jesus than I do.

***

 

    Can people change? Can people change their story? Naomi says people can, and I believe her because she knows more about that than I do. Can Jesus change our story? Mark says that he can, and I believe him because he knows more about that than I do. As for me, I'm not sure, exactly. I no longer think that I am destined for 'great things', because the things that I now think are great don't get a lot of publicity. Feeding a homeless person and reasserting their dignity is great. Counseling and listening to someone to help change their emotional narrative is great. Studying seventy hours a week so you can save someone's life is great. And teaching people to love one another regardless of what they do to you, and then dying to save everyone, is the greatest story of them all.

    So the answer, I guess, is that people can change. I'm not sure how we change exactly, but I know it's not as easy as I used to think. And I know we can't do it on our own.

Most change, in my life at least, has come through mistakes and tragedy and sadness. I'm a better husband because I was lousy before and the woman I'm with somehow understands me. I'm more understanding because I know what it's like to feel judged. I'm a better friend and more accepting of others because I know what it's like to be lonely. (I remember the nights I spent staring at my coffee table in a darkened apartment with no one to call.) The more I think about it the more I realize that Naomi is right. People can change, and while choice matters, it isn't just about the choices we make. It's about me. It's about you. It's a magical thing and sort of a silly cliché, but it all starts with this crazy idea that we're all God's children, as if we're one big family. We'll probably never be a happy family, because there are too many kids and someone will always feel left out or better or worse or not enough. But sometimes that's us, and that's okay too. Somehow, I think, so long as we remember the basics, that God created us and loves us, that we're going to screw up and make mistakes and that other people will too, I think we have a chance to change our story. And when our story changes, so does our life. I'm not sure I can explain it, but I've seen it happen, and if it can happen to the other kids, it can happen to us too.

 

-Steve