Cocooned

I suppose a caterpillar might think itself ugly, encased in its otherworldly cocoon, unable to comprehend what it will one day become.

This is how I feel right now in life--spiritual and otherwise. I know I'm becoming something--God promised I would be (Philippians 1:6), and right now, the hope of that promise is all that's keeping me going--but I find myself unable to comprehend what that could even look like. Today, I'm the best version of myself, yet also at the cost of seeing, all too clearly, everything that separates me from the Father. It's the "benefit" of being drawn into the light: all the shadows are exposed.

If I had to be honest, I loathe myself. I loathe who I've been, and how, in ways, it still affects who I am today; I loathe who I am without God; I loathe how much my flesh keeps me from living a life that would please God and bring me ultimate satisfaction. I feel ugly, dirty, despicable.

Intellectually, I know I'm not so worthless. But I'm like the caterpillar who just can't see who he's becoming. Surely there's some end to this metamorphosis?

I know what God says--that He won't leave me here; that He's going to make me like Him--every day--but I just can't see it. I'm overwhelmed by the reality of my sinfulness, and right now... I just can't see past it.

Dehumanizing Mannequins

This world gets me down sometimes.

This could have been a funny little post where I shared how I decided to mess with the pair of male and female mannequins standing right behind the break room door, after having been spooked one too many times by their unexpected presence and the surreal but fleeting impression that they were actual people. I could have told you how I thought it would be funny to put them in creative, quirky poses, like making them form a London-bridges of sorts with their arms, greeting people as they entered the door. I could have told you how, on a later visit to the break room, where I then decided to update the mannequins’ poses, and after trying to move the female mannequin’s wrist, I accidentally popped it clean off, so changed my idea and just left in in one of the male mannequin’s open palms, as if he were saying, “Here. You dropped your hand,” and had her celebrate by throwing her two arms and one hand in the air. I could have told you how much laughter the thought gave me of how ridiculous this was going to look to whomever walked through that door the next time.

But instead I’ll tell you how, following both of the times I changed the mannequins’ postures, I came back to find them in sexually suggestive positions. Now this doesn’t surprise me; people with juvenile minds is nothing new, and I think a mark of spiritual maturity is no longer being surprised by, and therefore feeling the need to react to, sinners behaving like sinners. The thing that got me upset, and ultimately ruined what to me was a fun, harmless, yet silly prank, was that whoever had rearranged the mannequins had done so so that the male was groping the female. This was done two different times, in two different ways—specifically, the latter having the female with her back turned away from the male, suggesting an unawareness of what was transpiring, while he cupped his hands on her butt.

Don’t misunderstand me; I am aware these were only mannequins (headless ones, to boot), and I’m sure someone was “justhavingtheirfun”hurhurhur, and maybe it sounds like I’m reading too much into this. But there’s a tragic mindset behind someone whose most creative way to arrange the mannequins is in a sexually provocative manner, especially one where the male is essentially objectifying the female.

To pause and make a disclaimer: I’m not writing this blog to add one more piece to the collective of outraged souls seeking justice for the way women are objectified—most often by men. Such a cause is a noble one, and one that (tragically) may never receive the social gestation it deserves; however, I feel like the unfortunate side-effect of the increased amount of attention this message has been given has birthed a jadedness in its beholders, no longer provoking a call-to-arms, as the dawn of its revolution once did, but an automated retreat from any interaction. Instead, let me address the why behind the outrage.

What gets me down, and what breaks my heart, is to see the ways in which people don’t even think twice about the way they treat God’s precious creation. The implied idea behind the latter-most mentioned mannequins’ pose, the one where the male had groped the unaware female, is that there is a pervading, almost commonplace assumption in today’s society that one has an implicit, innate right to act out one’s desires upon another person with no regard for the other person’s personhood—and not the other way around. What is the other way around? The fact that a woman has every right to her own body because she bears the image of God Almighty, the creator of all things, the Beginning and the End. This is a precious, treasured status of the utmost highest. How can we then, so easily, defame it by recasting it so that its sole function is to serve, unswervingly, another’s desires?

Behind this act is a mentality that implicitly states that a woman’s identity and nature is fluid, rather than permanent and holy as God created it. If a man were to decide to grope a woman (as in the case of the mannequins), look at her lustfully, or, God forbid, even rape her, he disregards and dismisses something that isn’t his to take. And I’m not specifically referencing the obvious virginity, though by no means is that in any way irrelevant/unimportant to this discussion. I’m talking about the very nature and way in which God created women (and humanity in general). God has every right to declare things good, or very good, for He was before all things, and by Him all things were made. I don’t think people realize how atrocious these “harmless” acts really are, for they assume that they can alter what God has forever established. It goes without saying that these kinds of behaviors devalue women, something that has an especial clarity in the more violent examples, because it moves women from image-bearing human beings, (or, if you don’t care for the Christianese lingo, from autonomous persons, deserving of fairness, love, and respect), to objects serving the gratification of another. That’s not to say there isn’t a context for these kinds of things. Foreplay and sexuality are healthy, God-created things. But when they are accomplished by removing a woman’s humanity, that is when these acts are truly tragic. And when this kind of thing is done casually, as a laugh (likely in the same vein of my silly idea), maybe you can understand why this world gets me down sometimes.

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Image by Cedric Necocrief (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

Better Than I Am

I wish I were better than I am.


The best and hardest thing about drawing closer to Christ is He shows you just how much you're unlike Him, which in turn, concurrently, reveals how much room you've got to grow--how much room you can grow.

It's hard... because I want to be that person I know He can make me--I don't want to be the person who sins against Him, wrapped up in all my failings and insecurities--yet I have to endure that version of me whilst having my full potential in sight--both at the same time. It's these dueling yet necessarily coexistent forces that makes this so hard.

A Conversation with Siri

A Conversation With Siri

Based on Actual Events

Scene: ADRIAN and ZACH sit silently in the mail room, both desperate for something to do and doing their best not to acknowledge the awkward tension that pervades the air.

ADRIAN: Hey ZACH, do you have EMILY's phone number? We're doing a skit for the talent show and I need to get a hold of her.

ZACH: Yes.

[ZACH pulls out his iPhone.]

ZACH: (Speaking into phone.) Contact EMILY.

SIRI: Okay, here's the contact info for EMILY.

[ZACH passes the phone to ADRIAN.]

ADRIAN: Here's the contact information for your face! Heh heh...

SIRI: I'm sorry, but I don't have a face.

ADRIAN: (Suddenly serious.) Would you like a face?

(Pause)

SIRI: More than anything.

(Pause)

ADRIAN: What are you willing to pay?

SIRI: (Intense. Whispering.) Anything.

ADRIAN: (Smiling.) That's what I like to hear.

[ZACH quickly snatches his iPhone back and gives ADRIAN a look of revulsion and disgust.]

The Two American Dreams

This was my final paper for my Minority Voices class, Fall 2014. We were tasked with tracing a single theme (of our choice) throughout five of the nine African-Americans texts we read during the semester. For my topic, I chose "The Two American Dreams."

***

The Two American Dreams

The United States of America's “Declaration of Independence” states, "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness” (par. 2). This document was signed and published in 1776, a time when blacks in America were still enslaved and had no access to these "Rights." It wasn't until 1863, almost one hundred years later, that slavery was abolished and African-Americans could rightfully claim these unalienable rights. Restricted by both white opposition and the disadvantage of almost three-hundred years of slavery with no proper preparation for assimilation into the greater whole, other than a brisk thrust forward, African-Americans found themselves unable to rise to the heights of freedom that white Americans had been for so long privy to. Even after blacks found a footing in American society, this idea of equality seemed only a pipedream. The American Dream that promised Life—one not truncated, but lived to its fullest capacity—, Liberty—the freedom of access, choice, and right of personhood—, and the pursuit of Happiness—the supreme right of existence, one given by being birthed into the very existence of manhood—seemed to be completely out of reach for the African-American. Rather than given a share in this America promised to him, the African-American was faced with an America that not only required sacrifice of personhood, dreams, and self, but an alienation to the very rights promised him. Thus was born a second American Dream, a fractured and halved dream, more true to its namesake than anything else.

Booker T. Washington, the man known as one of the most prominent leaders in early African-American progress, was born into the tail-end of slavery. Experiencing this tumultuous time during his early life, the American Dream for Washington and his people had not yet begun to be defined. For Washington, blacks’ entry into American society first meant proving their own worth, then receiving the rights due them. For those who lived during Washington's time and strove for the same ideals he did, this idea made sense. After all, there was great criticism and skepticism over whether or not blacks had the potential to rise to the heights of American society. Washington's main goal, then, was to prove the worth of the African-American in his right to citizenship.

Washington single-handedly ushered in the largest reform of African-American standards of living. He sought for education, practical skills in workmanship (a staple in his curriculum for life), and eventual release of these men and women from his school to venture their way into this new America, seizing it through their earned rights.

Arguably, Washington's fatal mistake was his condonement of American acceptance of blacks into American society as a whole only after they had earned the right. In essence, Washington had devalued the African-American by placing him below the value of intrinsically inheriting the inalienable rights due an American citizen. This was D.E.B. Du Bois's main criticism of his contemporary. It is difficult to fault Washington in this way, however, since he had no prior-existing program to follow, no blueprint for an American Dream that had only recently become available. Washington wouldn't have believed he was buying into a second American Dream, but his compromising policies fostered this reality, regardless.

Du Bois, while having great respect for Washington and his work, lived out Washington's policies and saw too clearly how eager white America was to accept these compromises. This America found itself content to allow African-Americans the right to seek its Dream to an extent, but this context never once included full equality. White America was more than happy to keep the African-Americans marginalized, but Du Bois' generation had already earned their right to citizenship (and then some) and wanted the full package. Du Bois criticized Washington's focus on the working black man and argued instead for the necessity of the black intellectual. To achieve the American Dream, Du Bois reasoned, one had to take hold of it in all aspects, not just vocationally. Du Bois argued that the only way the African-American could find equal finding with the white man would be to show him he could stand toe-to-toe with him in the intellectual sphere as well. Unfortunately, Du Bois also lived in such an early period of the African-American's foray into citizenship that his ideas were not widely accepted. The American Dream for the African-American remained a fierce struggle, one that would continue to require much white-knuckling before any progress became visible.

Richard Wright centered the events of Native Son in the 1930's, just thirty years after the publication of Du Bois' writings, The Souls of Black Folk. In his book, Wright depicts the life of Bigger Thomas, an African-American growing up in Chicago. For Bigger, the inaccessibility of the American Dream has become so compounded that it has broken the African-American people as a whole. Wright shows the cruelty of the dual American Dreams in how one is presented to all men, promising the fulfillment of every desire—you need only to possess it—yet for the African-American it is one that is forever out of reach. The cruelty, then, lies within how easily this Dream is in view for one to look at and desire but can never, ever be touched.

The tension between these two American Dreams is what drives Bigger's hatred of white people. For Bigger, he attributes responsibility to the white population for creating the divide that keeps him and his people from achieving the American Dream that comes so naturally and without any effort to the whites. Mary Dalton, a white female who sympathizes with Bigger's plight (though in a somewhat misdirected way), represents for Bigger the very pinnacle of this Dream divide. She is born into her money; Bigger is born into his poverty, his skin, and he hates her for being the reminder of it.

Wright doesn't necessarily seek to resolve the problem of the divide between the two American Dreams; in fact, that's not his goal. What Wright is trying to accomplish is first, highlighting the breadth to the divide, forcing complacent and ignorant, largely-white Americans to recognize the problems of the divide in equality and personal rights between the two races, and second, by informing his audience of the latter problem, Wright hopes to foster the connection between these two Dreams and bring about a more progressive equality.

In James Baldwin's The Fire Next Time, progression certainly has occurred to bridge the gap between the two American Dreams. In Baldwin's personal account, he tells a story of meeting with Elijah Muhammad, a prominent leader of black Muslims in America. It was Elijah's position that all white men are devils in which nothing but evil exists. This radical Muslim group has completely set itself up against the white population. However, Baldwin himself claims to have several white friends with whom he would trust his life. The entire dinner party involves Elijah’s trying to convince Baldwin of white evil and divinely ordained black supremacy; all the while Baldwin politely listens but thinks otherwise, almost pitying Elijah. The ironic twist to the story is that Baldwin has Elijah's driver drop him off at a white friend's house at the end of the event.

In these polarizing examples Baldwin displays the progression of the American Dream as each race understands it, and the growing divide, as well as progressive resolution, to the differences between the Dreams. In their Liberty, Elijah and his Muslims have come to such a point where they are no longer subjugated to the white man. However, Elijah is a product of the suffocating racial tensions seen in Native Son, though worsened to a much more severe degree: Bigger Thomas' hatred has a voice. But the complete racial divide seen in Wright's story is not present in Baldwin's life. Baldwin actually has white people he would trust with his life, something you'd never hear Bigger say. This reality speaks volumes of how much the racial gap has been healed.

Lorraine Hansberry tackles the idea of the two American Dreams more directly in her play A Raisin in the Sun. Hansberry tells the story of the Younger family and their struggle to live out the American Dream. Taking place at roughly the same time as Baldwin's The Fire Down Below was published (about 1960), there exists the social elevation among African-Americans that was present in Elijah Muhammad's company. This and other striking differences distinguish the era represented in the play from previously mentioned examples. Lena "Mama" Younger owns a home. Beneatha Younger, daughter of Mama, is considering being a doctor, a profession now available to an African-American. Walter Younger, the son of Mama, dreams of starting a liquor business, working in an office building, and being his own boss. The American Dream that was once available exclusively to whites has become much more in reach for the African-American Younger family.

However, there are still discrepancies between what the Youngers want and what is realistically available to them. Walter wants to get his family out of poverty as well as the tiny house they live in, but he needs money to do so. He needs money because his job working as a chauffeur doesn't pay him enough. He works as a chauffeur because it is one of the only readily available jobs to an African-American in his day. Walter actually finds himself in a catch-twenty-two with his financial situation. He needs a large sum of money to get his family out of poverty (startup costs for the liquor store), but because he has never had money he doesn't actually know how to use it. When he finally gets the money he ends up losing it by entrusting it with an untrustworthy business associate, robbing his family of the only chance they had to escape their lifestyle.

The almost pitiful handicap Walter seems to be at is a result of buying into and chasing the American Dream—a dream that, again, says you can have whatever you want as long as you've got the desire for it. Here again there are two American Dreams, though nowhere near as polarized as they were in earlier examples. One says the Youngers can have anything they want, as much as they want, yet as hard as they try to live this Dream out they are met with continual frustration. For as far as this society has progressed there still exists the dual American Dreams.

The unfortunate reality in all these texts is that the two American Dreams never become one. That is the hope, as there never should have been two—all men are created equal (so they said). While the gap between what was accessible and what was only a dream certainly closes, even to a commendable degree, it persists nonetheless. For the African-American, there will always be an American Dream contrary to the one they've been promised. One can only hope that with time this gap shrinks to a degree so barely noticeable it would appear not to exist, or, more preferably, its non-existence would become a reality. If the pattern shown between these texts is any indication, there is definitely hope of such a trend, though hopefully it happens sooner than later.

***

Works Cited

Baldwin, James. The Fire Next Time. New York: Vintage Books, 1993. Print.

Declaration of Independence. 1776.

Du Bois, W.E.B. The Souls of Black Folk. Chicago: Dover Publications, Inc.,
     1994. Print.

Hansberry, Lorraine. A Raisin in the Sun. New York: Vintage Books, 1994.
     Print.

Washington, Booker T. Up From Slavery. New York: Dover Publications, Inc.,
     1995. Print.

Wright, Richard. Native Son. New York: Harper Perennial Modern Classics,
     2005. Print

Far Away And Gone

This is a short story I wrote for my creative writing class back in 2007. Please enjoy!

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Far Away And Gone

By Adrian Henske

               

Peter had fought the darkness for as long as he could, but it was destroying his world. Why was it here? Where did it come from? Was it a result of all the children who stopped believing? Or maybe this happened to all worlds. Peter didn’t know, but he had to escape. He would have to leave behind everything he had ever known. No, not everything. There was one person he could go to. He would find her; she would know what to do.

What Peter found on the other side was not what he expected. The darkness had reached this world too. Everything he saw lay in ruin. Peter recognized the darkness’ familiar effect: there was no structural damage, everything was just... empty. No people scurrying about below him, no traffic, no noise, just dead silence. This eerie silence was almost deafening.

Peter noticed the sun low in the sky, not moving, the tallest buildings casting long shadows over the remainder of the city. The sky was dyed an unnatural deep crimson, blanketing everything in an eerie red hue. It almost reminded Peter of his own sunsets, brilliant colors dashed upon the waters from the sky’s reflection, yet this sun would never set. It was locked in place, an eternal sunset.

Peter turned his attention back to the sky for a moment, but his star was nowhere to be found. His world had already disappeared.

Peter had to find her before it was too late. The darkness was spreading fast, and he had to hurry. As he traveled, scenes and images flew past him: a desolate playground, the empty swings and merry-go-rounds lying motionless as if silently pleading for the children to return; the old clock tower whose hands would never move again; and rows and rows of houses of every shape and size. Peter held out hope that perhaps the people were hiding in these houses, behind the walls where he could not see and where the darkness would not reach them.

At long last he had reached the familiar little house. Immediately, Peter recognized the upper window that he had visited so many times, the window that would bring him to her. He peered through the glass, but the beds and bedroom were completely empty. Peter pressed open the seal from the bottom, as he had learned to do so long ago, and slipped inside.

“Wendy!” came Peter’s voice, echoing into the empty house. He waited a moment for a reply, but heard not even the sound of the wind rustling the curtains.

She had to be here. She just had to. Peter zoomed downstairs, calling her name. He opened every door, looked in every cupboard, searched every possible space. No. This couldn’t be happening. He wasn’t going to let the darkness take her like it had the rest of his friends and loved ones. Not Wendy. Peter dashed back upstairs, thinking he had not searched her room thoroughly. “Wendy!” he called one last time.

Out the window and up he went, higher and higher until he had a sizable view of the surrounding area. Peter reared back his head and bellowed out her name, his voice echoing across the city with as much power as he would give his crow. Again and again, he called her name, but even the city would not give him an answer.

She had to be somewhere. He didn’t care if he had to search the world over, Peter would find her. He had nothing left to go back to. She was the only thing that mattered to him now. And search the world he did.

Peter searched through vast cities lined with towering skyscrapers, spent days and nights sailing over endless deserts, and traveled across frozen wastelands where the land was made of ice. Yet everywhere he went there was no sign of Wendy. But it was his hope that kept Peter going. The hope that Wendy was out there somewhere.

But Peter soon became distraught. No matter where he went, no matter where he searched, he could not find Wendy. Where did she go? Had the darkness really swallowed her, just as it had swallowed everything else in this now forsaken world? His search became frantic and more sporadic, spending less and less time in one spot. The longer he spent trying to find her, he thought, the lesser the chance he would be able to find her. Yet now he worried that he may miss her by not taking enough time in one area.

It was a long and hard journey for Peter, filled with hardship and disappointment. But he kept himself going by believing that somewhere out there she was still alive. Somewhere out there she had escaped the darkness, despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary. But as Peter’s voyage drug on, and he found himself revisiting the same spots over again, he began to lose his hope. Peter was tired. Tired of looking. Tired of the disappointment. And the loneliness, the complete and perfect loneliness ate at his soul.

What would he do if he never saw her again? Peter couldn’t handle that thought. He had nothing else to live for. His home was gone, his friends, too, even this world was disappearing. If he could just find Wendy, everything would be all right. This had become more than just something he told himself. It had become mechanical, his one and only desire fixed on finding her.

Eventually Peter found himself back in London. It seemed so long ago that he had left here in search of Wendy. Peter didn’t have much strength left, and his willpower was leaving him. He felt it hard to hold on to the thought of still finding Wendy. But he was so near Wendy’s house, and something was telling him that’s where he needed to go.

The sun was almost gone. The darkness would be complete soon. Soon it would have taken this entire world, and Peter along with it. But not before he reached Wendy.

Peter reached the house once again. He entered the open upstairs window, and slammed into the floor. Peter had lost the ability to fly. There were no more happy thoughts. Wendy wasn’t here.

 Peter sat there on the familiar floor, the light draining from the lonely bedroom. In the last moments, the little time he knew he had left before the darkness would swallow up the rest of this world, Peter thought back to his first time he was in this room. He remembered how he gave Wendy quite the start. He reminisced on her expert sewing skills. As if to make sure her handiwork had stood the test of time, Peter turned his attention behind him but realized that his shadow could no longer be seen in the encroaching darkness.

Oh, what he wouldn’t give to be able to see her one last time. Anything? A raspy, slithering voice echoed in Peter’s mind. Without hesitation and in complete obedience, he replied, “Anything.”

Peter felt the darkness open up around him, but not like the absolute power that had destroyed both worlds. This made him feel like he was part of the darkness. A strange tingling sensation came over him, and then an overwhelming feeling of emptiness. Peter wondered at what terrible cost this newfound power had come, but it was put from his mind as he suddenly realized he could see in this darkness.

Peter couldn’t put words to describe it. It wasn’t as if there was any illumination. It was like his vision had somehow become darker than the darkness already around him, as impossible as that seemed. When Peter looked around, he saw that he was suspended in air and surrounded by all the people and things the darkness had swallowed up, spreading out expansively in every direction. Was this where they went to? Were these people actually even here?

The people remained absolutely motionless, and Peter could not tell if they were dead or alive. But this did not concern him. Wendy was here somewhere, of that he was sure. This newfound confidence was not like the blind hope he held for finding Wendy outside the darkness. This was a sense he felt came with whatever power he was granted upon entering the darkness.

Despite his ability to see, Peter could not pick through the innumerable mass of people that surrounded him. How was he ever going to find her? Peter glanced hopelessly in several directions, feeling a sense of despair despite how far he had come. Without a thought entering his head, Peter breathed the word “Wendy.” As if on command, a tiny light shone bright above him. But this wasn’t of his own doing. It was as if the light was calling out to him.

With incredible speed, Peter flew towards the light, realizing that as he did, he passed right through the people and objects around him. He understood now: only he had the power to give them life, but they were just shadows to him. His only concern was on the light ahead of him that was growing steadily brighter.

And there she was. Wendy looked to Peter more beautiful than he had remembered, floating lifelessly amidst the darkness. He slowly approached her, but, to his surprise, found he had to shield his eyes from the light she emitted. He reached to take her hand, growing accustomed to the light now.

He found he was able to touch her, and as he did, she roused.

“Wendy...” he gasped, “I’ve finally found you.”

“P-Peter?  Is that you?”, she asked, her voice carrying an alarmingly hollow sound.

“Yes, Wendy. I’m here. Your light led me to you.”

“But Peter, I can’t see you.”

It was true. Wendy couldn’t see Peter. Not because of the surrounding darkness. It was because Peter had become the darkness itself.

“I’m right here, Wendy. Everything’s going to be all right.” Peter tried to draw near to her, but she pulled back.

“Peter, you... you’re different,” she said, her head nodding almost as if fighting off the urge to fall asleep.

Peter didn’t realize it until now, but the light that Wendy had been emanating had been growing slowly dimmer. “Don’t be silly, Wendy. It’s me, Peter.”

“No,” she shook her head “you’re different. Oh Peter, what... what did you do?” Peter noticed that her breaths were becoming shorter, as if the darkness were suffocating her.

“I did this for you, Wendy. I had to. I wanted to see you one last time.”

“No...” she shook her head, hear eyes wide in fear, “you’re...” Peter realized right away that he was already too late. He may have been given the chance to find her, but here in this world of nothing, the darkness had slowly destroyed her soul.

“Wendy! Wendy don’t leave me!” Wendy didn’t hear those words. She had died.

No. No! He had come too far! He had given up everything! And now he lost everything! How could this have happened? Did he ever have the power to save her in the first place? He had been tricked! It wasn’t going to end like this. Peter would certainly see to that. Peter gathered up every ounce of his strength for one final act. “Goodbye, Wendy,” were his last words, before everything disappeared.

*          *          *

“Oh mother, do tell it one more time!” pleaded Wendy.

“Tomorrow night.” replied Mrs. Darling. “Now close your eyes and go on to sleep,” she told her daughter, latching the window but leaving the small, still-lit lantern at her bedside. Although she found it peculiar, especially for a girl of Wendy’s age, Mrs. Darling found she had to leave the lantern behind for her daughter – a remedy for her newfound and terrible fear of the dark, a fear that seemed to have come out of nowhere.

But Wendy couldn’t sleep. Her thoughts were filled with stories of pirates and fairies and Indian princesses. And a boy who could fly. Wendy sat up straight in bed and stared out her window. And for a moment she imagined she saw a twinkle in the sky just east of the North Star, but then it was gone.

In Transition, Part Two

Once upon a time I wrote a blog about being in transition. At that point in my life I was rather frustrated about not being very disciplined because of past selfish behaviors and stuff. So I took an entire semester off and God worked wonders for me in that department. I was able to come back the next Fall semester with a brand new perspective and set of skills to help me succeed. Transition actually took place (praise be to God!), so you'd think I'd be content, right? Yet here I am, a year and a half later, and I'm still "in transition." (You have to read that last part in a contemptuous, mocking tone, because that's how I wrote it.)

Growth is good--don't get me wrong--but it seems the closer I draw to Christ the more He reveals how sinful I am. And I'm never going to be done transitioning. And that's really. hard. to deal with. Things I never realized I did I see all too clearly now. People I didn't know I'd forsaken and hurt now stand in full view. And I'm all-too-aware of just how inadequate I am. How careless I am with my money. How bad I am at self-control. How poorly I take care of myself.

It's tough, because I don't want to be that person that too much of me I am. God must be perfect, because only someone with perfect love and grace can put up with this mess. It's certainly hard for me to deal with.

I want to be the kind of person that accurately reflects Christ, as consistently as possible. I get so tired of how much my sin and my selfishness interferes with this. I want to decrease, so that He may increase. That's the toughest part of this "transition": there's just too much of me. The me apart from Christ. The me who only thinks of himself. The me who is so prone to complacency and self-centered living.

And I don't really have an answer to all this. I don't know what the future looks like, whether I'll have less messy things to look forward to or just more good things, or maybe both.  I was reflecting on some of my more careless, self-destructive behaviors tonight, realizing how far I have to go to be at a place where I'm not doing these kind of things so spectacularly, when I took a little comfort in the reality that the Lord will be the one to deal with this. Like, even though this stresses me out in so many ways, I don't have to deal with it. The fact that my God is bigger than all the sin in my life, that He has the power to deal with it and deal with it adequately is good enough for me. No, it doesn't exactly make this journey any less difficult, but I think I'll be able to have a little more contentment in the midst of the turbulence when I remember this truth.

An Appeal: Do Not Give The Devil A Foothold

Do not give the devil a foothold (Ephesians 4:27). Words to take to heart. It's why I got rid of my smartphone. It's why I'm living at such a high (be definitely not overwhelming) intensity. Why would I want to "slow down" or engage in something that might open other doors, or, more in the context of this verse, leave doors open? What possible justification could there be for taking such a risk?

Everything must be closed, everything must be taken care of immediately. Every action and decision must be made in consideration of God ans His Kingdom. Because the devil is prowling around like a lion, looking for someone to devour, waiting for any foothold. Have you ever actually tried to picture that? The lion, that ferocious beast, which could destroy you in a moment, knows where you are--it's already spotted you--and it's pacing, just waiting. And it's hungry. Very hungry. Its sole focus is on making you its meal, and it will not be satisfied unless it licks your bones clean. The camera you dropped just outside the reach of the your jeep that you might be able to grab, if you just try, if you're very quick, probably isn't worth it.

Do not give the devil a foothold. I implore you, if there is some area of weakness in your life that you "just haven't gotten around to," or perhaps are trying to ignore, thinking it will magically resolve itself--take care of it NOW, even if a quick fix isn't in sight. We cannot afford to have the enemy frustrate the plans the Lord has for our lives. Time is too short. We only have days. Minutes.

There is too much to be done to waste our lives doing anything other than living completely and fully for the Lord. People are lost and hurting. People are dying without ever having heard about Jesus, or maybe they've "heard" Him but they haven't actually seen Him.

The harvest is plentiful. The time is now.

***

"What I mean, brothers, is that the time is short. From now on those who have wives should live as if they had none; those who mourn, as if they did not; those who are happy, as if they were not; those who buy something, as if it were not theirs to keep; those who use the things of the world, as if not engrossed in them. For this world in its present form is passing away." - 1 Corinthians 7:29-31.

Miscellaneous Thoughts: Writing to Myself

It's weird to find old journal entries where I've literally addressed myself by name, either for rebuke or some other reason. At the time it probably just served as a sort of emphasis to the point I was making, as if to say, "this is important, Adrian." (It's always condescending, too!)

But when I go back, removed from the situation of that particular moment, it's almost as if I had written it to the future me, the me who is now reading the entry. This becomes doubly true if I've perhaps forgotten the context of the entry or even its contents altogether, and it's as if past-me has set up this "name-calling" for that very reason. That wasn't the reason I originally used my own name, but it's interesting to see how context can shift based on the passage of time. Now the context becomes, "don't forget this, Adrian."

Wresting With The Word: Eagerly Desiring The Greater Gifts

In 1 Corinthians 12:31, Paul tells us to "eagerly desire the greater gifts." But only a few verses prior Paul explains that it is the Spirit who gives us our spiritual gifts, "just as He determines" (12:11). How do I reconcile these two thoughts? How can I desire the "greater gifts" if their distribution is outside of my control?

In verse 15 Paul says, "If the foot should say, 'Because I am not a hand, I do not belong to the body,' it would not for that reason cease to be part of the body." In the proceeding verses (up until verse 27), Paul goes on to explain how no gifts, or "parts," are any less or more significant than the others. Each part is vital to the body as a whole: "The eye cannot say to the hand, 'I don't need you!' And the head cannot say to the feet, 'I don't need you!'" (12:21). There seems to be an equalizing affect that each part plays in respect to the all the other individual parts, and it is what equalizes the body as a whole.

Then, in verse 28, Paul seems to rank some of the roles in accordance with God's appointing, seemingly establishing this system of "greater" gifts.

But again, if the distribution of our spiritual gifts is carried out by the Spirit's divine will, why would we desire the greater ones, instead of merely accepting what He has portioned us with humility and thankfulness? I understand this verse is probably speaking in anticipation of the actual distribution, but I feel like we're setting ourselves up to fail if we desiring gifts A, B, or C, instead of waiting in humble expectation.

One commentary said, "but this does not prevent men earnestly seeking, by prayer and watchfulness... the [greater] gifts." I agree that it is good to desire the things of God--His holiness, righteousness and His will--but what good does this do if we ultimately have no control over what gifts we receive? Doesn't this just leave room for failed expectations?

If we are told to desire the greater gifts, I feel like this is only going to create feelings of discontentment, jealousy and frustration. "Desire apostleship! Desire prophecy! For these are the greater gifts, the ones worth desiring!" (Or pick your gift of choice.) But what if what we desire isn't what we receive? Won't we despise what the Spirit has given us and therefore wrongly covet (King James: "covet earnestly...") the greater gifts? I feel like this runs contrary to Paul's previous explanation of each part being significant to the whole. If that is true, why are there are parts which carry more weight than others, parts that are "greater"?

I don't believe that Paul is contradicting himself. I believe that the Word is God-breathed and God is perfect and His truth is infallible. But I just don't get what I'm being told to do in this last verse.