From Depression Towards the Great Unknown

(Have you taken the Monday Challenge? If not, check it out. Every week presents a new challenge. Something different. Okay, onto this week’s Monday Encouragement.)


As far back as I can remember, I’ve always been jealous of people who always seemed to be on the move. People taking trips and taking chances to go after life. People with the nerve and audacity to be bold in their life choices. For as much as I’ve pursued the dream of writing, I’ve always been hesitant when it comes to things like exploring a new city or travelling somewhere new. As I’ve worked my way through my thirties, it’s become even tougher to break through that mindset. I don’t imagine it will ever be easy.

Part of that is my writer’s dream which has, for a long time, deposited me squarely in the category of starving artist. But a large part of it lies in my mental health struggles. I’ve battled depression since my early twenties, and there remain days when basic functioning is about all I can do, when stepping outside my routine or myself is a nearly insurmountable task. This past week, Canada celebrated Mental Illness Awareness Week. A number of people came forward to talk about their struggles, including perhaps Canada’s greatest athlete, Clara Hughes. (Medalist in both summer and winter Olympics) 

Her testimony, along with others, was well received by the public. For me, as one of the millions who struggle with mental health issues, it was a sign of our growing understanding as a society that some things (most things?) aren’t simple. That this notion we should just “pick ourselves up” or “stop focusing on the bad” simply isn’t the answer. Life is more complicated than that. And yet, we still hear, particularly from the idiots binary thinkers in many churches and mosques that mental health issues are merely the symptom of spiritual damage. It isn’t true, but it offers people a chance to fit everything into a simplistic worldview. These are not, generally speaking, horrible humans. They are often kind and sincere. The problem lies with the importance they place on the necessity of their worldview’s perfection.

Certain worldviews demand that they be correct in every way to function at all. We see this primarily in fundamentalist ideals, not just here in the West, but everywhere, be it Communist China or certain Islamic countries or portions of North America. We see these countries and populations go through great pains to control information, to provide all the answers to people about everything. People who suffer from mental health issues do not fit into these controlled people groups because there’s no place for them in this type of absolute worldview. In fact, most minority groups don’t fit into these power structures. Gays, women, minority races, people of differing faiths, the handicapped, none of them fit. However, having once shared this rigid worldview, I understand why they work so hard to control information and seem so closed. They are terrified that they will fall off the “belief cliff.” That cliff is steep, believe me, because once you leave behind a worldview that held every answer to every question, there is nothing to break your fall but the stones below. Sounds pretty terrifying, doesn’t it?

It is. I went through it, and in some ways, I’m not sure that I’ve ever fully recovered. Having everything explained simply, even when it was clearly wrong, made the world seem smaller and less frightening. I knew who God loved and why I was here and why we had pain in the world and why I was special and why certain cultures were evil. I understood all the spiritual intricacies, the “why’s” and “how’s”, as if I’d been given a secret guide map to the universe. In some ways, it was like being eight-years-old again. People were easy to define as good or evil. I didn’t have to worry about nuance. I didn’t have to deal with complexity. And most importantly, I didn’t have to deal with the Unknown.

And of all the things we’ll face in our life, perhaps the most terrifying, and the most human, is the Unknown. The understanding that we don’t know what we’ll be facing a year from now or what will happen when we die. We don’t know what our job situation will be like or what will happen with our kids or if we’ll ever have kids. We don’t know if we’ll be healthy or where our friends will be or if we’ll find ourselves in a loving relationship.

***

The desert is an overused metaphor, but it fits here. And it isn’t simply those who have fallen off the “Belief Cliff” who face the desert. At some point in our lives, each one of us will find ourselves looking towards the horizon and find nothing there but the shifting sand. We’ll be asked to walk across it anyway.

If you’re like me, and you’re facing the desert for the first time, you scurry back to your books and theories and turn on the hockey game. Nothing like the drone of announcers and the whir of skates and pucks to get your mind off such horrible things. Your next step is to wrap yourself in religion and religious indignation, spew great volumes of words on how easily we can “know God” and how our confusion can be easily addressed by following these few, simple principles. But somewhere in the back of your mind, that picture looms. You remember watching the sand shift in the breeze, the heat of the sun on your face, and the way the horizon shimmered as if you’d disturbed something sacred. Mostly you remember the vastness of it all, as if every bit of emptiness you’d ever felt had been poured out to create this space where the world had swallowed everyone else and left you alone. Out there, your theories and books and distractions didn’t work. Out there, you learned two things: the burning sand and the fallibility of your beliefs.

***

So much is available for us today to know. Encyclopedias of knowledge stored on pieces of metal the size of a thumbnail. We can ask seemingly any question and get an answer in seconds. So much knowledge, and yet, we still know so little. And it’s this gap, this understanding that we will never have all the answers, or worse, that our answers are all wrong, where find the essence of humanity. Where we stand on the edge of the desert and realize that though ages have passed, the desert itself remains untouched, and that we all must face it at one time or another.

We can avoid it, or attempt to, by distracting ourselves with busy work and family stuff and a noisy life. We can ignore the memory of the sand burning under our feet and the questions that keep us awake at night. That’s our choice too. We can claim that such business is “melodramatic” or “artsy nonsense” or “just more excuses” not to be happy with what we have. As always, the simple answer remains tempting. But then, there’s a reason why war and hatred permeate our species. Why people of certain races or religions or gender or sexuality are persecuted and killed.

Unfortunately, it’s our love for the simple answer that drives us further away from our humanity. From the character that we hope to develop and the person we dream of becoming. It’s the simple answer that drives wedges between dissimilar people groups. That sees the world as a pre-ordered hierarchy and not a living sanctuary. And it’s the simple answer that denies us the terrifying but sacred ordeal of witnessing something much greater than ourselves.

The desert brings more questions than answers, but the implications of humility are so immense that they inevitably lead us on a new journey. They take us on a path away from knowledge and surety and move us towards wisdom and empathy. As fearful as it sounds, there’s something wonderful in the change, something wonderful in the comfort of embracing our humanity, of accepting our struggles and questions and knowing that we are not supposed to have all the answers. That we’ll never have all the answers. That whatever our lives are to become, they will never be perfect, and that’s okay, too.

I still struggle with depression. I imagine that I always will. Some days will inevitably be more difficult than others, and on those days I’ll ask for grace from my family and friends and feel the weight of discouragement cover me like a lead jacket. This matters because too often I read religious books or self-help books that promise a secret that will take away all your questions and pain. We get caught up in these ideas, and then come crashing down again when they don’t work, and when the pain remains.

The struggle of being human will always be there, I think, because it is the very thing that defines us. The question, then, is what to do. What do we do when we face the Desert? What do we do when life weights us down? What do we do when our dreams seem to have passed us by?

So many questions, and yet the answer, I think, is found only when we embrace the questions. When we embrace the difficulty of our humanity and celebrate it anyway. When we accept the path of the Unknown and continue to walk, knowing that the path is built for faulty steps, built to handle our errors of judgment and times we get lost.

People are inevitably going to tell us what they think about our path. They’ll tell us that we’re wrong or right because that’s part of being human, too. Just so long as we keep walking, remembering that we all face time in the desert, that we all ask the same questions, and that no one has all the answers. If we remember that, we can push towards the life we want with no regrets. And if we’re lucky, with just a bit more grace and empathy than we had when we started.

Much love

Steve

Loving Your Neighbour is Impossible… Without This

The sweat ran down my forehead as I pounded out another ten reps and slammed the bar back on the rack. The "fitness" room was little more than an odd assortment of weights on top of the stage, but it was enough for me to workout, especially after the last class. Studying at Seminary had been something of an eye-opener for me. It shocked me how locked in my fellow students were and how adamant they seemed about their beliefs. Not with the 'big' ideas so much, it was a Protestant Seminary after all, but the smaller ones, the applications. Especially shocking was the disconnect between the two. Loving your neighbor had very different connotations for people, and too often it meant exclusion. I wiped my forehead with my towel and adjusted the weight. The fan above the stage blew noisily, but did little to dispel the heat. I'd been involved in a somewhat rancorous argument in my History of Christianity lecture with one of the younger guys in my class, who insisted that he got his rules from the Bible. Where did I get mine from? We'd been talking about homosexuality, an always divisive topic, in regards to government. My classmate insisted that the government should enforce "biblical" standards when it came to gay marriage and the gay "agenda". I'd done my best to reign in my own passions, but I'd left class with the empty feeling I often had when I'd been involved in an argument. Still, it was disappointing. Again and again I ran into people at school who, when confronted by something that challenged their beliefs, simply dug their heels in and refused to budge. Sometimes it was a rational argument, other times not. The difficulty for me was that there seemed to be no consistency between people in what caused some to believe one thing and another person to believe something else.

I headed across the stage and through the doors for a drink from the fountain. It was after ten o'clock, and the halls were quiet. When I'd first come to Tyndale, I'd naively expected Grad school to be different. I figured that since we were talking about higher education, our debates would be based on the material. Looking back I can see how ludicrous that was, how I missed my own blind spots, how easy it was to assume that I was being different, or to use a word that shouldn't exist without quantifying, that I was being "objective." Unable to come up with any answers, I decided to head home.

****

I've always thought of Jesus' command to love our neighbor as something worth striving for, as an ideal worth living. Even now, just whispering it in the shadows of my home, I can sense the tiny thrill of hope coursing through me, of a world changed by the power of those words, a world of hurt and tragedy and fear sent scattering to the winds by the breath of the ultimate ideal. As a Christian (like Jews and Muslims), this concept is more than just an ideal however, it is the basis on which we strive to live and stems directly from our belief in a benevolent and loving Creator. Unfortunately, no matter how much we claim Jesus lives inside us, or that we are the products of grace, its application is random and often misapplied or not applied at all. In fact, there are times when it seems our faith actually inhibits our ability to love our neighbor. The truth is that loving our neighbor has become a catch phrase, an abstract notion drifting upon the winds of our beliefs structures like a balloon. And while the idea still fills me with hope, there have been many days when I have thought it best not to even think of it, because sadness and disappointment are sure to follow.

There is, however, a reason behind its difficulty. It is the unifying theme behind both our inability to love our neighbor, and why it remains a seemingly impossible task. It's something I wish I'd known long ago, something that would have helped me during my debates at school and my arguments through the years with other well meaning people. Arguments that left me empty and angry and sad, and despite my vigorous defense, often left me feeling as if I'd missed something. As if I'd somehow skipped past the heart of what Jesus was saying.

****

Moshe lay on the side of the road, unable to catch his breath. He fingered the wound at his side, which continued to bleed heavily. The bandits had surprised him; usually the road was safe this time of year. He muttered a prayer and closed his eyes under the bright sun. (Shema)He tried to roll over, but every movement brought pain. If he did not get help, he would die, but he didn't have the strength to do it himself. He opened his eyes, squinting against the pain and the sun. A priest passed by. He stopped briefly and Moshe called, his voice low.

"Help me, please."

The priest shook his head and continued on. A few minutes later a Levite passed, but this time Moshe did not even have a chance to call out as the man crossed to the other side of the road without so much as a glance. A breeze picked up, and Moshe closed his eyes. Why wouldn't they help him? What had he done to deserve this? He whispered another prayer and accepted his fate. He thought about his family, his wife and two young children, and worried for them. Who would provide when he was gone? His brother lived in Judea, but he had five children of his own.

A strong hand pressed against his shoulder and he forced his eyes open. A younger man, his face serious, was using his robe as a makeshift bandage. The young man was obviously wealthy, from his fine robe to the way he carried himself, and it took a minute before Moshe realized who was helping him. He growled under his breath, but the young man merely raised his eyebrow. A Samaritan? Anyone but a Samaritan, Moshe thought. He tried to roll away, but the young man was insistent and Moshe was too weak to resist as the man piled him on his donkey. The pain from his side continued to throb, and he moaned weakly as the donkey began to walk.

"We must stop the bleeding." The Samaritan said. "The bandage will help. Keep pressure on it as we ride. The journey is not long."

Despite his misgivings, Moshe did as he was told. A Samaritan? Why would a Samaritan help him? Samaritans were the descendants of the Mesopotamians that had settled in the Northern Kingdom, Israel, in the late eighth century BCE. With their phony temple, fake priests and their own Torah (who could imagine such a blasphemy!), they were, in Moshe's eyes, the epitome of everything that could be wrong with a people. Perhaps it was better not to be saved. Thoughts of his wife and children kept him quiet however, and soon enough they were at the inn.

If the innkeeper was surprised by the pairing, he bit his tongue as the Samaritan handed him a number of coins.

"See that he is taken care of. I'll be back in a couple of days to check on him."

"Yes, sir."

The two of them helped Moshe from the donkey as the inn keeper whistled for a few men to help carry Moshe to a room. The Samaritan looked at Moshe, and for a moment it seemed as though he too, was surprised by his own actions, but he didn't say anything. Moshe wanted to look away from this blasphemer, but willed himself to make eye contact. He wanted to thank the man, but for a number of reasons, could not find the words. Finally, the Samaritan clucked the reins of his donkey and left.

****

I closed the book and let it slide from my lap. Amy- Jill Levine's, The Misunderstood Jew, had made me think about the parable of the Good Samaritan in a new way.

This parable, she'd noted, was nearly always misread by modern scholarship, and it did not retain the punch that it had in first century Judaism because we were too busy projecting our version of Jesus on the parable. The Samaritan was not the gay man or the homeless person or the poor person or the prostitute. The Priest and the Levite's refusal to help had nothing to do with Temple impurity, and Samaritans were not "less" than their Jewish counterparts. They were not a minority. They were enemies. Modern Samaria today would translate to the West Bank. A good, modern equivalent would be an Israeli leader of the Knesset being helped and looked after by a leader of the Hamas. In the Middle East today, Levine pointed out, that picture was impossible to grasp, which was the point of the parable.

Who was my neighbour? If what New Testament scholar Levine said was true, then it changed everything. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that what was missed in the parable was not only the identity of our neighbor, but what we must do if we were to love them. And that was not going to be easy to reconcile, if only because I'd always hated rules.

****

It was warm outside. The sun was out, and in the distance I could see the CN tower across the lake. A breeze rustled the trees in front of the balcony, and I sipped my coffee, still thinking about what I'd read the day before, about what it meant to love my neighbour and the rules that governed both our individual life and the ones that governed society.

I'd never liked the idea that there was only one way to do anything. One way to drive. One way to do church. One way to express our faith. One way to cut tomatoes. It had always seemed absurd to me, because everyone was different, and difference in methodology, at the end of the day, meant very little. As a 'non-conformist', it was easy for me to think that I was beyond the human need for self-rules. The truth, however, was that I had just as many 'rules' as the next person. I believed in equality for everyone. I did not accept pre-determined gender roles. I didn't like cell phones in public places and thought we should open presents on Christmas morning, not Christmas Eve. I believed Jesus to be the Son of God. And I believed in eternal life, but not in eternal torment. When I examined myself, I actually found that I had many, many rules about what it meant to be a man, what it meant to be a Christian, and what it meant to be human. My closest friends were those who saw the world much as I did.

I shifted in my chair, enjoying the way the sun warmed my legs. Everyone had rules. Some people had rules I didn't like or understand. Yet who was I to judge? It seemed to me that the toughest part about loving your neighbour was not only understanding that different people had different rules, but that if I wasn't willing to accept that truth, I could never love them. It didn't mean I had to agree with people, I didn't have to subscribe to misogyny or classicism or what I perceived to be bad manners, but if I wasn't willing to accept their right to believe and live as they chose, I would forever be trying to change them. Part of that was human nature, we all sought to live consensus, and it was as natural as breathing for us. But the willful set to change people around me, to get them to live by my rules, seemed at odds with the parable of the Good Samaritan. I thought about the past, and how easily I'd confused the Gospel with my rules, and how they'd often become interchangeable. I could no longer do that, but it still seemed as if I was a long way from where God wanted me.

I pulled my feet from the chair in front of me and stood slowly, stretching as I did. I muttered under my breath, with a glance to the sky.

"Love your neighbour as yourself."

I felt it then, that tiny charge I'd felt since I was a kid. It was different now, and it would change again as I continued to learn, but within that small nugget of truth I could sense the grace of the Creator. I thought of all the 'neighbours' I hadn't loved, of all the times I'd been more concerned about being right than accepting that others too, had rules. It wasn't about right or wrong or even intent, it was about acceptance. About accepting my humanity so I could accept it in others. About accepting that 'the Gospel' and 'Steve's rules' were two very different things.

There would always be an urge to convert the people around me to accept my rules. To do church the way I wanted. To behave as I wanted them to behave. But so long as I was willing to look in the mirror, so long as I continued to ask God to help me love the way He did, maybe, just maybe, I would understand better what Jesus had taught, and follow more closely in his footsteps.

-Steve

Missing the Miracle - An Epilogue

When I first started my degree in Theology a number of years ago, I was a fervent reader of the Bible. I read it every morning without fail. That continued through my degree and my years in the ministry. Somewhere along the way howver, my faith in the Bible, along with my faith in general, collapsed with the persistent thought that I was missing something. I didn't know what it was, because I could quote whole texts of Scripture and give you their specific location by number and verse. ("Scripture and verse" was a process drilled into myself and my pastoral colleagues at school.) When it came to Scripture, I was taught a number of things, not the least of which the simple ability to quote the text should be enough to answer questions or deal with difficulties in my life. Unsurpringly, it didn't work. I still remember the morning I looked at my Bible and put it down for the last time. What was the point? I knew the answers anyway? The 'benefits' of memorizing all that Scripture.

I didn't pick it up again for three years.

The emphasis on Scripture in the Evangelical world is not a bad thing. It is actually a very good idea. Unfortunately, the beauty and art of Scripture is mostly lost because we more interested in proving Truth than living Truth. I know because I was there for so many years. As a pastor, I remember my congregants, many of whom thought highly of their Bible (the inerrant, inspired Word of God Himself, they would tell you), but would leave them on their pews to mark their seats for next week. They, like me, had been walked through it so many times there was no room for it to teach them something new.

It is hard for us to grasp the massive difference in culture between the time the Bible was written and now, or the fact that it has been two thousand years since Jesus walked among us. Especially in our culture, where change comes so quickly we can barely remember the last century. (Women first voted in Canada in 1929, a mere 90 years ago) And Western Europeans, yes, that's us, have never really done well understanding other cultures.

Reading the Bible remains a tricky experience for me, but in the stories, I look for the things that I was never taught, the innocuous seeming statements that lend the narrative such weight. In reading John Chapter 9 a few weeks ago, I let my imagination get hold of the story and tried to forget my learned pattern of "breaking it down". By the end of the week I hadn't moved from the Chapter in my morning readings, and the Friday morning tears came to my eyes as I read the verse that has affected me so powerfully this past month. "When Jesus heard they had thrown him out, he went and found him" (John 9:35) It's a small verse overlooked by the power verses Christians often quote, but in the context of this story, it reveals everything about the character and humanity of the man we claim to follow.

The story of the Blind Beggar is not an easy one, and while it lends itself naturally to sentiment, it also bleeds into tough questions. The Jews knew that being born with a handicap was a sign of sin. Jesus said no, it was to reveal the glory of God. Most of us quote that quite happily, and yet for centuries many Christians did not see how that story related to slavery. Slavery was acceptable because it was in the Bible, wasn't it? Didn't Paul order his slaves to be obedient? And what about women, how can they vote if their supposed to be quiet in the back of the church? Aren't they supposed to reflect the glory of (their) man? Stories like this should not be driven by sentiment alone, but for the disturbing truths they reveal about ourselves and our prejudices. When we think about Jesus challenging the "black-and-white" thinkers of his day, remember their response, and think hard about what yours will be.

It often amazes me how much garbage there is floating around in my belief pool. Sometimes I wish I could just empty the whole thing and start over, but that's not what given for us. A vital part of being human and developing our character is about sorting through our beliefs and picking out the trash, one piece at a time, if necessary. It's a part of God's gift to us to help us learn humility. One thing we do know however, is that when we care more about being right than witnessing good, it reveals a piece of ourselves that can not be addressed by more rules or better faith. It means there is yet more cleaning to be done.

My prayer is that the church will more embrace her humanity, her errors in thought and judgement, so that we will become more like the God we serve. That we will presume less, and ask more. And that we will see in others what God sees in us, and love them accordingly.

-Steve

The Necessity of Insecurity

October 2007

"That's stupid. Totally wrong. The Bible is either completely true or it isn't." Jack said.

"What do you mean by 'completely true'?" I said. "That's an impossible statement to either attack or defend."

"C'mon, Steve, you know exactly what I mean."

I nodded. I did know what he meant. I just didn't agree with him.

A few of us had broken off and were lingering in the hallway just to the left of our classroom. We'd just finished the first half of our Biblical Interpretation course and most of us had grabbed a coffee to help us get through the second half. Coming to Toronto to work on my Masters in Divinity had offered a few surprises, not the least of which was the absolute certainty of so many of my fellow students. Partly due to age -- when I was twenty-five I actually did know everything -- and partly by indoctrination, it was difficult for many of them when our professors challenged our convictions. From my perspective, sitting and standing in the small circles outside the classrooms and in the cafeteria and library, regurgitation and rejection seemed the order of the day. Get the grade, reject the idea, and get out. This wasn't true of all my classmates, of course, but in my mind, too many of them thought the professors were out of line for even questioning the traditional belief patterns.

"I mean, c'mon, how are we supposed to convince people that Jesus matters if we can't agree on the basics?" Jack said, continuing his rant.

I shook my head and slid back into the classroom. I still remembered when I'd first come into the church and my time in the ministry as an enthusiastic zealot at twenty-one, when the world had seemed so easy. So... black and white. After fifteen years of brokenness and disappointments and successes, watching my worldview change seemingly every year, there was little to say to my classmate. He'd have to live it to understand it. I had.

One of the important things I'd learned through the years however, something that had really surprised me, was that my attitude had little to do with religion. This pattern of absoluteness carried into every area of my life, from my idea of who should be playing right field for the Blue Jays to the proper way to worship to the best way to prepare roast beef. In many ways, life was simpler then. I didn't need to worry about nuance or insecurity. Just believe, right? It wasn't that my mind couldn't be swayed by good argument, because it was possible to convince me of something else. What I couldn't do, however, was hold two ideas about the same issue in different hands.

And that had nothing to do with my belief in God, and everything to do with what I believed about being human.

****

April, 2009

I stood on the stoop outside my house, listening to the birds chatter and sing across the street. Spring was here. Another year, and more changes would soon follow. In two short months, I would be leaving my home for the past two years to be married. I thought about all the times on the stoop with my housemates, how we had laughed and cried together, sharing our lives in ways I would never have thought possible when I had arrived. Of all my housemates the past two years, only one had been born in Canada, and yet the bonds of friendship formed in that time could only be described as familial. We shared different beliefs about God, about life, and the "right way" to do things. We never talked about what it meant to be human, but it was the basis of our discussions, because in discussing the "other" things, we were really talking about our humanity.

Most people of faith don't like to hear the idea that understanding your humanity is more important than understanding God. But without the acknowledgement of our own limitations, how can we point to God without assuming a portion of divinity? How can we love and empathize with people around us if we do not understand that we all start at the same point? The only way to share and love and reflect the love the Bible talks about is through our willingness to expose our own insecurities, our own weaknesses, our own unsurety. Humanity is conjoined in her weakness, not in her strength, and in a society that promotes a (misunderstood) Darwinian ideal of the survival of the fittest, it is no wonder that we find community so hard. That we are so lonely and discouraged. Our beliefs about what makes us human are rarely questioned, and yet they are the bedrock from which our lives spring.

A black squirrel hopped onto my neighbour's porch, staring at me with a twitching face as if deciding whether he should run. I smiled and remained still, waiting as he slowly worked his way down the steps and into my neighbour's yard. We all love strong opinions, don't we? I enjoy listening to Simon on American Idol because of the forcefulness of his opinion. Conversely, listening to Paula's barely comprehensible pap ("I love you all!"), is boring. However, there is a great difference between the exchange of ideas and the interpretation of humanity, which is the biggest danger of any form of punditry. It seems as if we're constantly in search of the "perfect" idea, and that there is only one ultimate idea for everything. This is impossible, of course, unless we are God. To me, the greatest sign of a maturing human is their ability to hold different views on the same topic by remembering who they are, and to do so by remembering that they are human too.

I have long decried the idea of strict evangelicalism. I don't like it, because for me, the idea of a strict community is suffocating. There are those, however, who have grown up without boundaries, who see the very same things I see and regard them as a sign of love and concern. It would be unfair -- inhuman -- for me to castigate them for their experience, wouldn't it? To say that there is only one way to "do church."

It is this idea of nuance that so attracts me to Jesus. Not the Jesus most of us grew up with, the one with black and white ideas about tattoos and earrings and wine, but the one who consistently challenged people by their own ideas about humanity. Who is your neighbour? Why do you ignore that race? Who of you has sinned? This is what Jesus addressed, and they reveal so much more than the doctrines we spend too much time debating. Are not these the basics that truly matter? Without unsurety, however, we would never look for answers. Without weakness, we would have no need to share our lives. Without vulnerability, we would have no idea how to be compassionate.

It is because of our weakened humanity that we search for anything at all, and in so doing, it is only then can we find the One who has always loved us, and who asks us to share that love.

Not because we're right.

But because we're human.

-Steve

The Power of Passion

"Sweet Hommmme Alabama!"

The voice was so off-key it made me smile as I walked the last part of the tunnel towards the busker singing his heart out near the exit.

"Sweeet, sweet home!"

The crowd filed through the narrow corridor, and I moved to the right, slowing slightly to get a look at this terrible singer. He was straight from the 1960's, with a scraggly beard and long hair. The one side of his guitar had some fur attachment on it, like one of those coats you see for small dogs in the winter. I was trying hard not to laugh as I passed by, but he caught my smile and misinterpreted it.

"Have a good weekend!" He said.

I nodded, his face suddenly bathed in a mask of joy as he belted out another song. His voice wasn't that bad, I thought. It wasn't the voice that had changed of course, merely my perception of it. And instead of laughing at him, I was suddenly smiling with him. All because of the singer. All because of his passion for his task.

I headed up the stairs into the cold night, unable to stop thinking about the simplicity and power of passion. If humanity was continually engaged in "a war of influence", passion was probably the single most important ingredient in the mix. Too often however, it was packaged and commercialized as nothing more than another item on the "psychological need" shelf. As just another thing to be learned and added to our repertoire.

It wasn't difficult to locate religious books on the "passionate life." Unfortunately, they inevitably ended up commoditizing faith and using passion as something to help market "the gospel." Suddenly the one thing capable of transforming the human experience, the one thing able to make our hearts sing in the face of life's tragedies, was downgraded into yet another product.

The ten-minute walk to my car was cold one. I shuffled forward, hunched over, unable to stop sniffling. My sickness had lingered these past weeks, and some days it was all I could do to maintain the energy at work before crashing at the end of the day for much needed sleep.

"What the..."

Jammed into my windshield wiper was a plastic bag, with yet another note "From the Committee of the Neighbourhood Watch." Although the spot I'd started parking in was legal, I'd picked the curb outside a million dollar home. "If you can afford to drive, you can afford to pay for parking." the note said. They left me these messages every day. The plastic bag was new, the latest effort to "preserve" the note in light of the snow and rain we'd received recently. Some days, just for fun, I posted the previous notes under my windshield wiper. A preemptive maneuver, one I supposed was better than being rude or writing a nasty message back. Something like "my car was a gift, you prick" or "your home is worth a million dollars, and you have time for this?" or "don't you have anything better to do?" But then, maybe that's why we get stuck on rules. Why we so often became stuck on telling people how wrong they were and how right we were about the slightest infractions.

People who had no passion often found zeal instead, and there was nothing more dangerous than a zealot. Unlike those who have found what makes them uniquely them, zealots have accepted the substitute, usually in the form of religion or politics and usually involving the delineation of the human race. Why my country is better than yours. Why my race, my gender, my sexuality, my whatever, is better than yours. A zealot is dangerous because the drive for life is adopted -- like playing a role -- and as a result, cannot be simply explained away, not without having to endure the painful psychological extrication from something they don't even believe in the first place. Most wars are started by zealots. Most religions are defined by them. The unfortunate truth is that those who love the least love the loudest, and so zealots often win the "war of influences" by default. Those who have found true passion do not wish to be engaged by those who they consider to be fake, and those who have neither zealotry or passion are inevitably influenced by both.

Part of the appeal of post-modernism, for me at least, was this sense that authenticity and being and yes, passion, should be more prevalent in my life. That too much of my life was fake. That too much of my life was about what was practical, or what others thought I needed, and not enough about the "real" me.

You can get lost in the philosophical aspects of "the real me" and what it means, but the heart of it was this sense that I didn't want to pretend anymore. That I didn't want to feel like an actor slipping into another role. That I wanted to unveil that deep sense of self and be at peace with how and who I was. We all have days when we feel a stranger to ourselves, when the world feels out of place, when we wonder just how we got "here" at all. Part of what held me back however, was this whole idea of passion. Releasing myself into that was not an option. I'd been passionate before, and it was more than a disaster. In essence, I became what I hated. Even now, thinking back to those times, I still feel the regret. And the loss.

So much the loss...


The rain had picked up, and it drizzled along my windshield, blurring the night into a sea of yellows and shadows. I glanced over at the two or three leaflets on the floor of the passenger seat left over from my parking spot. the ones from the Committee. I remembered a time when I was younger, driving in the rain, my floor covered with leaflets from another "committee". Religious pamphlets that explained "the gospel" (How to Know God) in four easy parts. I remembered delivering them, handing them out to people with burning sincerity and zeal to change the world.

In those days, God was all, and the pamphlets were as much symbolic of the driving hunger for a life that mattered as they were a real part of what I believed. To friends and strangers alike, I burned with a fire that would not be quenched, and I refused to take no for an answer. God could change their life. He had changed mine. Be changed! Be like me!

I quickly became the master of the argument. I could walk people through Scripture or discuss the nature of God in philosophical terms. I latched onto every new archeological discovery that "proved" the Bible. I shouted and beat my chest into the winds and rains of a culture infatuated with everything but God. For four years, I carried pamphlets in my car, knowing that I might need them. Understanding that a soldier must always be prepared to fight. I was the epitome of passion, and living the life I had always wanted. Or so I thought...


The rain had stopped, and I turned off my wipers as I glided to the final stoplight before home. The leaflets lay crookedly on the floor, my gaze inexplicably drawn to them once again. What I didn't realize when I was younger was that I wasn't living a life of passion at all. I'd become a zealot. I didn't understand the difference between the two, and didn't care. That wasn't unusual of course, since zealots generally don't care about such "trivialities".

Of course, there's nothing trivial about the difference between being a zealot and living a life of passion. Passion comes from within you. It is not forced, and it isn't fake. Zealousness is always amplified with external help. (This is why cults and fundamentalists maintain such strict "socializing" disciplines. Get a zealot away from the bolstered environment and it breaks down quickly.) In my case, I was going to church four times a week. I had no non-Christian friends. And if I did hang out with a "non-believer" (catch the language there) my goal was to convert them so they'd believe what I believe.

Passion does not seek imitation but likeness. Someone who lives a passionate life is not looking for disciples or converts, but seeks instead those who find in life -- in all its heartache and pain and joy -- a humane reality that is at once authentic and real and heartfelt.

Important question: does a Zealot know that they are being "fed", that they have been given a "passion alternate" by people who inevitably use this psychological drug to control both people and their environment? Sometimes. Rarely. I didn't understand why it all felt so wrong until I left the church for two years. Somewhere along the way I realized that I had accepted the "zealot's pill" as an alternate to a life of real passion. The life God intended for me.


The rain had changed to snow, and I pulled into the driveway, still thinking about the busker with the fur guitar. I picked up the leaflets from the floor and threw them in the garbage on my way inside. No more games. The house was quiet, and I unlocked my room and stepped in, grateful to finally be home. These days I had a better understanding of passion and what it really meant. Why it was so important, and how much it meant to follow a life led from both above and within.

One only had to go on the internet to find crazy and hateful dialogue from people who called themselves Christians, or Christos, followers of Jesus. Clearly, they had, like me, accepted the life of a zealot, rather than the passionate life of someone in pursuit of God.
Passion is not enthusiasm. It is not charisma or results or what appears to be excitement, although that can be part of it. Passion is the allowed expression of our inner self in our daily life. It is the freedom found when we anchor our heart to our life. Zealousness is much different. Zealousness is comparative. It is always seeking to convince, to influence, and to promote. Passion has no need for this, because the goal is not to see other transformed by us, but to see in others the freedom we find in our own uniqueness, our own special-ness, our own stamp of God's creative touch. Passion invokes invitation. Zealousy invokes coercion. And lies.

(Part of the reason so many young people leave the church when they are eighteen is because the church, like other human organizations such as political parties, knows zealousy better than it does passion. Young people do well to avoid it.)

A life of passion is one of moments, when time stands still, when there seems to be complete unity with what we are doing and who we are, when our actions no longer look to the world for recognition. It is in those moments, when our passion has united the "all" of who we are, that we know what it means to be fully human. And the result is stunning. Someone who is truly passionate does not need to sell or convince anyone of anything. They do not need to convince or coerce or convene.

They need only to live.


The house was quiet, and I turned my music on to put the finishing touches on my latest novel. I still hadn't made it as a novelist, and there were days when I wanted to give it up, but I could fell my inner self smiling when I wrote. It was my passion. And to that end, I didn't need a publisher to convince me I'd made the right decision. I would write because I was supposed to, I would write because I was born to, I would write... and I would love every minute of it.

Passion has always been an important part of life, especially in Western culture. Too often however, we have accepted the substitute, and in so doing, have cheapened our faith. Cheapened our relationships. And most importantly, cheapened the world's perception of a Creator much greater, and much more loving, than we give Him credit for.

We all have passion inside of us. It resides in the parts we rarely visit, past the pain of disappointment and the cynicism of a life spent watching zealots. Past the discouragement of those closest to us and the "good sense" that keeps us as square pegs in round holes.
My prayer this week is that you will work past the pain and hurt, that you will open yourself to the person you have always wanted to be, and that you will discover the life of passion -- complete and broken and yet still joyful -- that God had in mind when He created you.

-Steve

The Treadmill and the Trampoline

Two Lives - One Life

Today

Have you ever had one of those days when you feel like something is going to happen, something important, but you don't know what it is? Or why? The story I want to tell you happened on that kind of day, and looking back, I suppose it wouldn't have mattered if I had known what was going to happen. Sometimes the person we trust the least is ourselves, I guess. Before I tell you what happened though, I should tell you something about me. I used to think that I could control things in my life by the decisions I made, that I was the master of my own universe. I suppose I still believe that, but what that means to me now, and what it used to mean, are very, very different. I know I'm getting ahead of myself, but it's important you understand what I used to believe, and how things have changed since that day.

I worked in a church for many years, and I have worked with people my entire life. I can't tell you how many times I heard people asking me to pray for them, that they needed a miracle in this situation or that situation. I generally like people, but I sometimes found myself wondering why they needed a miracle at all.

You live in North America. You own a beautiful house and two cars. You have a nice family. Sure, you have struggles, but isn't that part of life. Things can't be great all the time. You don't expect THAT, do you?

Just the same, I would agree to pray for them and offer what counsel I could. This went on for many years and I still didn't understand why so many people were looking for a miracle until the hedges of discipline and duty broke down in my life, when I began to realize the rhythms of life too often had little to do with my choices. I still believed in God, but this sense of powerlessness rattled me to the core. What if our choices didn't matter? What if I wasn't actually choosing? This went against everything I'd been taught in the church, and I didn't know how to handle it, so I just kind of sucked up and hoped for the best.

Until the day I got my own miracle. I didn't ask for it, not consciously at least, but it happened nonetheless, and things have never been the same.

Yesterday

It was warmer than I expected when I finally left the gym, the crowds thick along the street as I headed towards the subway and home. It was an uneventful ride and within a short time I was headed towards my car, my traveler's mug in one hand, my gym bag shifted well over my right shoulder. Another long week had ended, but I wasn't tired. I was oddly fresh, enjoying the bright sun and cloudless sky as I ambled along the sidewalk. The trees had lost their leaves, but even without their vibrant colours, today they seemed to glow and reach towards the heavens in the quiet stillness of the bright afternoon sun.

When I finally reached my car, an older woman with fiery red hair was sticking a piece of paper in my windshield. I shuffled forward quickly, my bag bouncing against my leg.

"Hey, I'm allowed to park here!"

I'd been forced to park further and further away (yup... parking tickets) from the subway until I was a full ten-minute walk away.

She saw me and smiled, and then removed the note.

"Oh good. You're here. I was wondering if you'd ever get back."

"I scheduled another client late..." My voice trailed off as I realized what I was saying. "Is there something I can do for you?"

She was a heavyset woman, wearing a purple scarf over a bright pink coat that was tattered along the edges, her lips painted a garish red that matched her hair. I instantly felt sorry for her, although I wasn't sure why.

"Can you give me a ride?"

I looked at her for a long minute. I don't always give rides to strangers, especially to the ones who hang around my car, but like I said, I felt sorry for her.

I opened the door and she slid in beside me, laboriously adjusting her thick coat and scarf. The musky scent of old perfume and sweat momentarily engulfed me, and I tried not to be obvious as I rolled down my window a crack to get some air.

"Where to?" I asked.

"Take me anywhere. Somewhere far away from here."

It was a ridiculous answer, but instead of questioning her further, I put the car in gear and pulled out. I glanced over at her while I was driving. Her face was craggy and lined. Other than the lipstick, she wore no other makeup else that I could tell.

"Do you have a place to stay?" I asked, my voice gentle.

"Yes. It's the same place it always was. It changes but never does, you know what I mean?"

I tried to check her pupils, but couldn't keep my gaze off the road long enough to see if they were dilated.

"Sure."

'What do you mean 'sure'?" She barked, her voice suddenly strong and narrow. "That's the first dishonest thing you've said to me."

I swallowed and didn't respond, suddenly wondering what I'd done. Had I picked up a total psychopath? Maybe it was my mood, but I decided to play along.

"You're right. I don't know what you mean."

She smiled, her face suddenly soft.

"Yes you do. But I appreciate your honesty."

"No, I mean it. I'm not a fan of so-called 'cryptic' statements because usually they don't mean anything. People say things just to say things, or say that they believe something and don't even understand why they believe it in the first place."

"It's not very helpful, is it?" She said.

"It's destructive."

She looked at me, and I could feel her gaze, which had somehow become stronger.

"So what do you believe?"

A blue Civic swerved in front of me, and I grimaced but didn't say anything for a minute.

"I'm Steve, by the way."

She smiled again, and when she didn't say anything, I began to worry.

"Seriously, where can I take you? There has to be someplace-"

"There is."

She pointed, and I sighed when I realized where we were. I pulled into my driveway.
I bent my head over the steering wheel. I knew that I was having a hallucination of some sort, that the woman beside me wasn't real. At least, I was almost positive that she wasn't real.

"I don't understand."

"Good. And you never will. That's the point."

"See, that's exactly the type of BS I hate!" I said, my voice rising. "The point is ALWAYS to understand! That's what it means to be human!"

She looked at me, her scent suddenly overpowering.

"Is it? Your problem, Steve, is the same one most people have. You have never accepted that you are human. You are not God."

"What? I know that!" My voice began to break. "Better than most, I think."

She reached out and patted my knee. Her hand was warm, and at her touch, I felt a surge of emotion.

"Thinking little of yourself is no different than thinking too highly of yourself. Both are a matter of pride. It is discouraging though, when some people use God as a tool to keep others unaware of their humanity, and keep them reaching towards divinity. God sees, but in this, he asks us to stumble and reach toward him. To see God is to accept who you are. How can we say that we believe God became human if we can't even acknowledge our own humanity?"

"I don't know if it's that." I said, my voice steadying a little. "It's just that life never really turns out the way we want it to, I think." I said. "I don't think people are always greedy, I think they're just being... human."

I looked at her, but when she didn't say anything, I turned my gaze back towards my house.

"Why don't we get what we want? I think that's what most of us struggle with. And even when we get what we want, we don't really want it. Or something."

"What do you want, Steve? What do you REALLY want?"

Her question lingered as I lifted my head and stared at the house. I thought about Bethany. About my family. About Mark and Jackie and Mireille and Ernie and all my friends. I thought about Szymon and Nads and all my housemates. And I thought about those who were struggling and broken, the ones who saw no way out and that not only wanted a miracle, but also truly needed one, the ones that touched my heart more than any other.

She shifted her shawl.

"I have a question for you, Steve."

"Okay."

"Do you like working out?" She asked.

I wasn't sure what her question had to do with people getting what they wanted, but then, I was having a conversation with either a highly delusional woman or hallucinating, so I wasn't sure it mattered.

"Sure. I've been working out for a long time."

"Do you like running on the treadmill?"

"Well, no, it's boring. Unless there's a TV it's okay-"

"Have you ever been on a trampoline?"

"Yeah."

I saw where she was going and gave her a rueful smile.

"Life is both a treadmill and a trampoline, Steve. As a trainer and someone who likes to workout, you know that you can't always choose your gym, given the circumstances, but most of the time you can choose how you're going to exercise."

"I've heard this before, you know." I said. "This isn't exactly a new idea."

She laughed.

"No, it isn't a new idea. The difference is that you heard it, but didn't believe it. Didn't accept it. Knowing and understanding are very different things."

I paused.

"Are you an angel?"

She smiled and opened the passenger door. A fresh blast of air rushed into the car. She leaned in and glanced at my notebook on the back seat.

"Keep writing, Steve. It matters. Keep loving people. And tell your readers that even if they can't understand why life makes no sense at times that they should pursue the better. Our lives are a reflection we see only dimly even in the best of times. Tell them not be afraid to ask for God's help, and when they get the choice, to choose the trampoline."

I nodded, unable to speak.

I watched her walk away, her scarf lifting in the breeze, until she disappeared from sight.

Tomorrow

I know you probably don't believe my story. Heck, I don't believe it and it happened to me. Well, I think it happened. Maybe it was a dream. Still, things haven't been the same for me since that day.

The change hasn't come all at once, of course. Some companies and religions like to promote "instant makeover" or a "new life today", but anyone who thinks about it for more than a minute understands the ridiculous (and dangerous) premise to that notion. And in the movies, you only have a couple of hours for lives to be changed forever. But in life, the changes that last forever take just as long. Some days I still forget that, and I feel lost and unsure, but when I think back to that day, I remember her words. Treadmill or trampoline? It helps that I work at a gym, but maybe that's why she chose that example in the first place.

Every day I go to the gym. I like it most days, but it's still work, and I have to be there. In that sense, I guess I'm not choosing. And when it's time to work out, there are days I find myself wanting the treadmill, not because it's fun, but because it's functional. Because I don't have to smile. You can't force happiness, I don't think, but when I bounce on that trampoline, its hard not to laugh a little. I'm not sure what this all means, if anything, but my angel (or whoever she was) told me to tell you, and it really has made a difference in my life.

To embrace God is to accept our humanity. And when we can accept ourselves, in all of our foibles and brokenness and selfish nature, we are not only more likely to ask God for help (especially when it comes to loving other people) but there's a better chance of us finding the trampolines in our life. At least, I think that's what she meant.

So there it is. Another to story to dwell on or brush aside. My only hope is that you will at least think about it, and if it helps in some small way, well, then maybe you can pass it on to someone else. I haven't met many of you, but someday we may meet, and when that happens, maybe you'll have a story for me too. Maybe we can get a coffee and talk about it, after spending a bit of time on the trampoline together.

-Steve

When Hope Leaves

The sky is clear tonight, and the moon shadows the few clouds in the sky, looking down at me as I lean against my stoop. There's no reason for the melancholy that pervades my mood, no reason I can think of anyway. Is it the exhaustion of the week? Or is it the exhaustion of life? I'm not sure. Dreaming has its consequences, and while it lends wonderful moments that rip through us with an overpowering wonderment and joy, the reverse is also true. And tonight, for one night at least, my joy seems to be lost near the bottom of the river.

Such is the rhythms of life. That does not, however make it easy.

The street is quiet. Even the friendly raccoons who live behind my neighbour's house are not out tonight. It is an overwhelming sense that within my neighbourhood, within my busy house, all is quiet. I am alone. Ever alone. I try to pray, but I cannot form the words tonight, not even in my mind. God is absent. And so is the rest of the world.

When I was a kid, I used to get these moments when I felt this way. Perhaps it was one reason why I read so much, why I engaged my imagination. Even at a young age, it seemed to me that people inevitably let you down. That life was no fairy tale. I forgot that for a while when I first joined the church. I thought that somehow if I filled my life with "God-talk", all would be well. The years have passed and have revealed that time for what it was, more an episode than a series. On nights like tonight, I still long for those days. I long for the surety. I long for the rulebook, no matter how wrong it may be. What I want on nights like these is for someone to tell me how life works, and to stop whining and get "busy."

But then, that would be a lie, wouldn't it?

I pull my toque down more tightly as the cool wind slices through spring air. The trees rustle in the breeze, the new blossoms scattering in the moonlight along the street. One of the darkest secrets of Christianity is that no matter how much we believe in God, no matter how strong our faith is, that we will all have moments like this, when we wonder where God is. Where we wonder why he has left us all alone. We don't talk about it much because I guess it doesn't sell very well. How do we promote a faith that says in many ways, your human experience will not change. That you will still experience sadness. That you will still experience heartache and sorrow and despair. Instead, we turn Jesus into a cosmopolitan fixer, the One who will take all of our crap and pain and hurt and bad choices and somehow turn it into the pleasure dome.

The truth is that being a Christian doesn't save you from the human experience. If anything, it accentuates it. I believe that God is watching me tonight, that he loves me, and yet, I am lonely and inexplicably filled with sorrow. I believe that God knows this. Yet, nothing changes. Were I to break out in exuberant song or lament filled prayer, the pain would still exist. This is not easy to understand, especially not tonight.

The apple tree in my neighbour's yard is starting to blossom. It brings an unexpected smile. My housemates and I ate most of the apples last year, late at night amidst much laughter and goofiness. It's a good memory, and it holds me for the moment. But what do I do with it? What do I do with the good memories that come in the midst of sadness?

As a former pastor, it is here where normally an appropriate anecdote would fill the space. A story about the lesson I've learned. A story about how I learned that God really cared for me (and certainly, this has happened enough). But tonight I have nothing to offer. Nothing to offer God or the people around me. Even my soul feels heavy and silent.

The truth is that life is not an anecdote, and while it contains joy, it contains great sadness. Sadness that is sometimes inexplicable. To lighten it without facing it would be to lessen the experience and learning and depth that come with these moments. And while I know that I am filled with sadness, I know that tomorrow will be another day. I know that I will sleep in a warm bed with food in the cupboard. Many people long for that which I already possess.

I pause again under the still night sky. He is absent tonight. So am I. I can't sleep, and I am too tired to write. Too sad to know why. I climb the steps and head back into the house. Tomorrow will bring another day, I know that. But for tonight, I am empty.

-Steve