On diseases and evangelizism

The woman who taught Sunday school said that since she was a little girl her prayer was that she would take one new person to heaven with her for each year she was alive. It's an ambitious prayer. I think that often we don't see the fruits - and sometimes we play a huge role and never know it. I have personally "led" 4 people to Christ. I prayed the prayer with 4 people. I can't help but think that when I get to heaven I will find out just what an impact I made. I don't count any of the people from my mission trips where we did street evangelism. I don't count any of my friends who I have helped through difficult times. Our system only counts the person who prays the "sinner's prayer" with the sinner. Our system is thoroughly un-Biblical. The "sinner's prayer" isn't in the Bible. Paul discusses planting the seeds, watering, and harvesting - but God makes it grow.

I think of my mother. I don't think she has ever personally "led anyone to Christ." I think this because she is pretty shy and because I think she would have told me about it. However, I know a lot of families in church who are there because they saw that my mother lived live differently. They saw the peace of Christ in her life and wanted that for themselves - so they go to church now. Thinking only of the kids in youth group and their respect for my mother - they all know from where her joy flows.

Most students at TFC prayed the "sinner's prayer" when they were small children. Their parents had them pray the prayer. My mom never did that. She lived her life boldly for Christ - and always gave Him the glory. She made sure that my sister and I went to events where we were given the chance to make a decision for Christ when we were old enough.

(and now for the diseases) 7 kids in the kindergarten class I work with are out of school with pink eye. No one made an intentional effort at giving pink eye away. A sick person was in proximity of non-sick people.

I honestly believe that if Christians would just interact on a daily basis with non-Christians the world would be drastically different. I'm ready to go outside of the 4 walls of my church.

I love Maya Angelou. Her book is one in which I become angry that I'm nearing completion. Her writing is mezmorizing, her style hypnotic, and her verbosity unreal. She can spin a metaphor like no one else.

A man at church told me the story of integrating schools in his southern city in the 60s. He was one of the white kids who went to a black school. We always hear about the black kids who were brave enough to march into all white schools. I was fascinated to hear Jeff talk about being bussed to an area of town he had never been to before to go to an (formally) all black school. He had to give up all of the modern equipment his white school had. He told me that they passed the bus full of black kids going to the white school. The white bus was silent when they pulled up to the school building. I think my church needs to work on racial diversity more.

I had a great day, the drama group did excellent with the skit (it was the talk of the day), and I had a lot of fun with my friends swinging in the evening. I love being Methodist.

I watched "Dahmer" last night. It was pretty chilling. I can't help feeling for the lost and hurting of this world after watching a movie like that. It's just who I am. I was walking around Wal-Mart today just thinking about how miserable people's lives are. So many people are completely trapped. That's why I'm a Methodist. I think that we have a healthy emphasis on a freeing grace that can only be given by God.

None of the professors at Toccoa Falls feel that we need to earn grace. Not one. So, why do we live our lives that way. It doesn't matter what you think. Theology doesn't make you happy. It only matters how we live. I pray that my life can touch the lives of people who need God's grace.

Milestone! 150 blogs! Yeah, I'm pretty prideful, but I'm not going to involve Jesus in the matter - I think He wants me to work it out myself. After I get rid of all the sin in my life I will go to Jesus. (Sarcasm, note the sarcasm.)

I've been thinking about my great aunt Mabel's last will and testament. No, not because it paid for my college. I've been thinking about it because it was filled with love. I have been running a comparison of it and my grandmother's will.

In my grandmother's will everything went to her children. If they were dead it by-passed their spouses and went right to any grandchildren. If there were none it went to cousins. There was no way my mother or my uncle Terry would get a dime. My mother and uncle are both wonderful Christian people who showed nothing but kindness to my bitter grandmother.

Aunt Mabel's will had the money going to her nieces and nephews. If my father had already died, his share was to be given to "Debbie Airgood, of whom I love dearly." Of Whom I Love Dearly. O'WILD. The same line was put beside everyone she mentioned in her will. It was all true. She loved everyone dearly.

I've started referring to a lot of my friends as "Lover." It's refreshing. I've been trying to love more openly - I think it's working. It hasn't been easy taking less for myself and giving more away. It helps if I refer to people as lover. I read, when I was a lowely Freshman, that the largest accusations about the new Christian church was that they were athiests (they weren't praying to a visible God) and that they were homosexuals (they loved each other openly and didn't hide it.) I realized that at my college we had built a lot of idols to represent God. We put up a lot of unatainable moral perfectionisms so that we had something visible to work towards. We also would never be accused of being too loving. Not only would no one think that a Falls student was gay - no one would even think we loved each other. Sad, but true.

I remember in middle school, Jared put a nickel in Ben's locker so that it would get stuck closed. I saw him do it and was really upset that Ben would take the blame. I wrote a note to the principal. He, of course, called me to the office and told me that he had asked Jared and Jared had accused me. I seem to remember being on crutches at the time. The punishment was a day's ISS (In School Suspension). Everyone was talking and taking sides. My mother told me, "Michael, always live your life so that the only things people can say against you are lies. Gossip can't hurt if it isn't true."

I think that this is the greatest lesson I learned in my middle school years. People say a lot of things about me. They are all either lies or something true that I'm proud of.

I want to love openly and honestly - always. I want to be able to list all of my friends some day with "of whom I love dearly" tagged beside their names. I want people to wonder why I love with such intensity, hug so often, and laugh so loudly. I want people to see the love of a Messiah within me. Let them say what they might, I want to love like Christ.

If only I was trying to get man's approval

"Sometimes the things that come out of his mouth are so radical, but then I think about it a while and I think, 'That's just what Jesus would say." - Saint Debbie the Meek

"I know how much we disagree on everything, but his heart's in the right place and I know that he really loves people. So, I'm glad that you're friends with him." - Rachel's Independent Fundamentalist Baptist mother about our friendship

"You just communicate so effectively through your blog. I want to say something, but it never comes out right ... and then you blog about it and it's perfect. We're like Moses and Aaron." - Bekke, my sister.

"I was reading your blog. Do you know whose writing style you remind me of? Donald Miller." - Tony Trussoni's roomate, Daniel.

So, I need to re-double my efforts to be a scandalous liberal that no one wants to talk to. I need to say more liberal things and love more boldly. It will take some work, but I'll become a scandal again.

In unrelated news I have two CLEP tests today. 6 credit hourse in 5 hours. Hooray! I am really excited about both tests. Keep me in your prayers. Hannah-Joy is praying for me ... and you should, too.

I have been practicing the piano daily for a week. My back is killing me, but I have "Christ the Lord is Risen Today" down. I'm so happy. I can play both hands on "Jesus loves Me." I'll get there eventualy I hope to be able to play the piano for my Sunday School class by next semester. Here's to hoping and renewed interest in practicing.

Some days I'm oh so insightful. Other days ... not so much so.

I'm plagued with apathy, bitterness, and an odd sense of being tired even though I'm well rested.

I'm eating Matzos right now. It's a huge ol' chunk of Jesus. This, my friend, is the left overs of one communion ceremony that my friends had. I'm really enjoying eating it.

It's bland and there's a whole lot of it. There are so many practical ideas to place on this ... but I just keep thinking about how bland the jesus is that so many people here worship. Too many falls students have sterilized and censored everything Jesus really was. I'm going to keep eating this Matzos. It's bland, but it's better than nothing. I think that the Jesus I worship is a lot more comparable to Doritos.

My Sunday School class had just finished up our second hymn. We only had the services of the organist for a few minutes and two hymns was usually our limit. The second hymn fit the lesson plan but was unfamiliar to most; Alma, the hymn leader, and I were the only voices that could be heard singing strongly. We finished up and closed our hymn books. From the back of the class Pete piped up and asked, "Alma, ... 17?" She grinned gently and nodded. Pete, an older man who often wore a bright green suitcoat and looks as though he spent many years "building his testimony" before he came to Christ, was filled with joy. His eyes glowed and danced simaltaneously, like fireworks, and he smiled so wide that his gums showed more than is proper in polite society.

I flipped furiously to see which song could hold so much weight to this man I knew so little about. "We all need it and Christ gives it freely" he said with much joy and satisfaction. I found the page - Amazing Grace, of course! We sang loudly and slightly off tempo. It was marvelous.

We had prayer requests and, after the lengthy discourse of the ill and dying in their age bracket, I gave a praise for the children's event we had held the night before.

We had a fall harvest party: story time in the pumpkin patch, fall foods, and "Trunk-or-Treat" in the back parking lot. My friends and I had made a haunted house/maze out of three cars ( I will blog in depth about this I hope.)

Virginia Smith, the grandmother of one of my senior high campers from this summer, said quitely, "Michael, we appreciate what you do." It meant a lot to me. Her kind words would probably keep me active at a heightened level for another month or two.

Dr. Pittard, a highly respected man whose hands shake gently and whose signature is almost illegible - I imagine from Parkinsons, asks the class to specifically keep the idea of Stem Cell Research in mind during the election season. He doesn't like to discuss politics (and we don't in class) but this went beyond politics - this was life.

The teacher was a man from Coudersport, PA who spoke openly and lovingly about Grace - and why we aren't under the law. It was very encouraging. Going to the Falls I need to hear a good sermon about Grace at least once a week.

After Sunday School Virginia stopped me to tell me that her grandson, Spencer, was going to go live with his father. She will give me his new address. "You meant a lot to him. He really misses you - we appreciate what you do," she added.

Sometimes people ask me why I go to the Curtis Trogdon Wesley class (it used to be called "Pairs and spairs" until everyone was well into his or her fifties.) Why do I sit each week with people whose hair is bluer than the sky? It just makes sense to me. It makes so much sense. I love these people and they love me in return.

So, I've decided that I want to be a bohemian. I belong with these people. Their life goal is to live counterculturally. The message of Jesus is very countercultural. I don't know why I have such a sudden fascination with these people. I'm not even artistic ... but, I want to (at some point) become a missionary to the bohemians.

I want to go somewhere that people are searching for freedom, truth, beauty, and love ... and take them Jesus Christ - who embodies all of those things and so much more. It just makes such logical sense.

In a completely unrelated note; I'm really happy. I was with my friend Robyn today. Robyn is skinny as a stick. Almost all of my friends are skinny. I use to seek out other fat people so I wouldn't feel fat. I realized today that I don't even notice weight when talking to people. I am sitting on a couch with 2 guys whose combined weight doesn't come close to equalling my own ... and i realize that I'm okay with that. It feels good.

"If you think you've "arrived" in your Christian faith ... well, you probably need to go stand in the NOT section."

We're still talking about the chapel I didn't go to. Not that I go to any chapels; I'm far too dissolutioned with chapel to perhaps ever attend again. But in one particular chapel people were asked to stand and congregate where they felt they were in their faith. Hot, What?, or Not.

This weird categorization system can only show two things. How emotional you are about your faith or how much of your faith depends on you. If your faith is entirely emotion - then you can fool yourself into thinking that you are living the perfect sinless life. Ultimately you can control your emotions ... and whether you admit your shortcomings or not is the only determining factor to keep you away from the HOT section. If you feel that you need to earn your salvation by doing good things, and feel that you have succeeded at this sufficiently to stand in the HOT section ... well, you probably need to move over, far over.

The people who truly deserve to stand in the HOT section (ridiculous terminology) deserve to stand there because they don't feel worthy to stand there. How cruelly ironic for the people proudly standing in the HOT section, proving once and for all, that they think so highly of themselves that they don't deserve what they so desperately want. The first shall be last and the last shall be first.

I heard that a humble few went and stood in the NOT sectin. I'm proud of them. I don't know if I would have had the courage. Blessed are the poor in spirit. This speaker kept pointing at those people to demonstrate where people shouldn't go - how they shouldn't act.

And what about the center? It shouldn't exist - at least not so poorly phrased of a center. We are all on an equal footing with other Christians. The ground is level at the foot of the cross (yes, I realize that Jesus was crucified on a hill and this statement is wrong, but I like it anyway). Our Christian walk is filled with mountain highs and valley lows. We grow as Christians in those valleys. Our faith is proven to us by a God of love who sends us into a valley just shallow enough to not be deep enough to kill us.

I was in a valley for 7 years. I prayed so long for a mountain top experience. Just long enough to realize that I don't need to have a mountain top experience for God to be real in my life. It took me 7 years to realize that truth. I thank God for those 7 years in the valley.

I was sitting in the Toccoa public library. I had gone there to escape my roomate, read some Jane Austen, and borrow a Maya Angelou book. I sat in a comfortable leather chair to read my books. I began by opening I know why the caged bird sings and started reading. I wasn't more than a half page into the book when a bright, bouncy, black boy ran around the corner into the reading room and began talking to me. He tried sitting in a leather chair similar to my own. He slithered out and complain about the chairs being too slippery. I made small talk, but continued reading my book. Maya wrote about her wish to be a blonde haired white girl. The boy would hide behind things and jump out to suprise me.

I finally decided that I had to get some Jane Austen reading done. I closed my pleasure read and opened my homework. Immediately the little black boy walked away. He went and hid behind a bookshelf. I waited patiently for him to jump out at me. He started whispering in a ghostly voice. I couldn't decipher what he was saying. He stayed there until I left several chapters later. He never returned to talk to me; just stayed hidden and whispered.

My ability to offer grace is almost as bad as my grammar.

Death

I followed a funeral procession today ... for miles. I started thinking about death. More specifically how a Christian response to death shows a lot to non-Christians about how we live our lifes.

A TFC girl died last Thanksgiving. The first two eulogies were sad, tearful events about our beloved Mary. The third girl stepped up to the podium with an awkwardly misplaced smile, more befitting a carnival entrance than a memorial service. She said, "My uncle died last week. Mary found me crying and told me, 'your uncle was a Christian. He's in heaven. Stop crying. We're going out dancing.' So, I'm not going to cry. I'm going out dancing."

I don't want people to cry at my funeral. If I died while at TFC I would want Pastor Andy to do my memorial service for the student body. I would want him to preach the most awkwardly liberal message ever (about why we all need the Holy Spirit because without Her life sucks.) I would want Dustin to go to the microphone and tell the people that I don't want them to cry. I want them to go out dancing. Then, he would mischieviously bend towards the mic until his lips were touching it and shout, "Bump and grind people, Bump and grind!"

As our beloved former Pope, JPII said, "We are an Easter people, and Hallelujia is our song!" I'm an Easter person - when life sucks I remember that we serve a living savior. My song is a happy one. When I am dead and gone, I want you to go dancing. Bump and grind people, Bump and grind.

The neighbor boy and I used to compete against each other. It was always a mental and conversational game. Alex would say something and then I would be expected to top that. He could usually top whatever I said - he was better at lying than I was.

One day we discussed our families' faith. We discussed primarily from the angle of how involved in church our parents were. Our mothers were both organists. Mine counted the offering and his led Bible Studies. My father worked in the sound booth. His father was a lay speaker. It came to a truce - neither won, ever.

Looking now through eyes that no longer enshroud truth with idealistic fantasies I understand how silly our arguments were. I don't think of my parents as super heroes any more. I realize how little faith my father had. He stopped working in the sound booth when they built a new, professional sound center. His hypocrisy was first shown to me when he refused to work in the new setting. He wasn't opposed to progress - just who thought of the idea for the progress.

My father still walks out of church when confronted with a person he doesn't like inside. My father still sadly compares his sin to others' with the sole hope of finding someone worse than himself. It is only in this action that he can justify his own sinfulness.

I don't understand how my father has lived with my mother for 25 years without realizing that authentic faith in Christ is what he needs to be happy. My mother is the greatest disciple of Christ I have ever met. She said crappy when I was nine; her only identifiable sin. Debbie lives out her faith in a way that I have never seen anyone else do. Every morning she reads her Bible and then practices the organ and has worship time with God. She prays diligently for everyone she encounters and loves lavishly. And, somehow that faith has never transferred to my father. He is quite content in his sin and religous duties. It's a sad fact, but one worth stating. Going to church and acting holier-than-thou doesn't get you anywhere. Loving Christ wholeheartedly gets you places - like heaven.

I have a hard time forgiving my father for the bad example he set for my sister and I. To the point that I can talk about him in the past tense. When we were kids my sister and I had to sit by ourselves because dad didn't go to church. Now when we are home he makes a big show about going to church - yelling at us for not showing up on time, angrily snorting every time my sister and I whisper to each other, and checking up on Becka's boyfriend to make sure Mike isn't asleep. It makes me hate going to church at home. I go to support mom. I want her to know that I support her, I want my sister and her boyfriend to see people of honest faith worshipping God, and I want to set an example of a Godly man going to church for all the kids there who have fathers who don't go to church.

First: "There's something refreshing about that, about presenting yourself honestly to the world, even if it looks and sounds a bit awkward." - Brian Palmer (Amen!)

Second: "People don't respond to the idea of God these days because when someone mentions God or Christianity, they think of judgmental personalities, The Crusades and guys like Pat Buchanan and Pat Robertson running their mouths. There's a reason people respond to someone like Mother Teresa and it's because she didn't have to say a word about being a Christian. Her actions spoke volumes more than all the words she did say, and that's how we ought to be as well." - Also some guy named Brian Palmer

So here's my dilemma. I think that I'm living for Christ a lot more than ever before in my life. I talk about theology a lot less, now. I mess up - and sometimes I don't really mind my sin - which is inconsistent with some of even my own beliefs. I give generously. I have love, joy, peace, patience (it fades in and out), kindness, goodness(so, maybe I could lose a few "your mom" jokes), gentleness, faithfullness, and ... (well, maybe self control is coming next). So, why don't people ask me as often where my source of hope comes from?

I secretly hope that people will ask me that question. Maybe it's selfish. Maybe that's part of the problem, but really - people use to ask me that question. It happens rarely, now. Christians ask me why I smile so much, friends ask me how I'm so free, and non-Christians ask me why I smile so much. But, where does my hope come from? I don't hear it anymore. Am I showing signs of hopelessness? I don't think so.

I am more of a servant now than I have ever been before. Tipping Huddle House employees well doesn't draw crowds, praying for revival in my walk-in closet (big enough to require wall art to discourage depression from blank walls) doesn't garner world-fame, and doing the dishes at Joe's house after the Church meets doesn't make me famous. Being the fearless high-school kid who bravely (selfishly?) traveled the globe to proclaim the name of Christ brings glory, leading youth group brings credit, and praying aloud in church after a service about our life brings awe. I'm learning the lesson that the life of Christ isn't a glamorous one. Jesus was never elected to office, he never called us to greatness in a traditional sense - just death; daily. I'm working on it.

There is going to be a Revival near Toccoa. I've seen signs hung up around town for it. There's one in McDonalds and one on campus. They scheduled the Holy Spirit at least 3 months in advance and if He doesn't show up they are going to be totally pissed at His agent. I'm sorry. I shouldn't speak so much blasphemy. Many places schedule revival services. They had one at the First Alliance Church, not an actual revival mind you, but a scheduled set of services labeled revival. There's a big red sign that says "REVIVAL" with an arrow. The church was at the end of a dead end street - the advertisement directly under the sign that said as much.

I'm not entirely certain where this particular Revival is going to take place or whether they booked the Holy Spirit. I wouldn't have noticed it except that there is a sign in every fast food joint except "The Huddle House." The House de la Huddle is a southern restaurant a lot like Waffle House, but a whole bunch sleazier. I would recommend you google it, but you might get herpes. It is a chain "greasy spoon." Shocking, grotesque really; but I love it there. The one in Toccoa still has a bullet hole above the grill from the last shootout. The cops always show up when I'm there. Everyone is outside smoking thanks to the new Georgia Anti-Smoking Ban, but you formerly swam in Tobacco smoke. They have manufactured mediocrity. I'm there at least once a week.

The people at the Huddle House don't know Jesus. Oh, they know about Him - they're southerners - everyone here knows about Jesus. But, none of the people at Huddle House show that they have a relationship with Him. I take friends there for the cultural experience. I try to tip very well - regardless of the service.

I get two visuals of the church when I'm at the Huddle House:

One is how we do church - mediocrity being the rule and not the exception. I read once about a man doing a song and guitar piece as a church solo - stopping mid song to re-tune and then continueing again out of tune. This isn't abnormal. We do things in a very sloppy fashion in our churches. We don't put a lot of pride in our ministry for God. Sometimes our churches represent Huddle House - and that's bad.

The other visual is for whom we do church. That Revival service wasn't advertised at Huddle House because they didn't want those people at their revival. I pray for, and know most of the staff, by name. They know that I go to the falls, and that means I'm a Christian. They also know I tip well and give generously. I hope that someday I can share my faith with some of the workers there. I hope that my life will have been an effective enough witness. Sometimes for whom we do church looks a lot like Huddle House - and that's good.

I'm reading a book about Jane Austen. I feel that I live inside Jane Austen's world - which is a pretty scary statement. The first chapter explains how Jane's nephew and other relatives tried to white-wash her until she was a friendly, insipid woman - a "dear Aunt Jane" - who never had much desire of anythign to become of her writing hobby. It is really interesting to see how scandalous her life must have been. She accepted and then refused a marriage proposal from a very wealthy man (a certain Mr. Big-Whither, no joke), she wrote about women gaining the upper hand in things, and wrote letters and reviews of critics that would make any proper woman blush.
I hope that no one tries to white-wash my life. I hope that the case can't be properly made against me of being a dull, uncaring Christian in America. I hope that when they write the biographies about me they tell of a youth who longed to serve Christ beyond the superficial North America paradigm. I hope that it is written that I fought against society to stand up for what I believed in. I hope that they write that I struggled with a lot of doubt. I hope that they never will write about my "super-faith," because it doesn't exist. I hope that I'm never thought of as a saint. I hope that people continue to see Christ in me, and at the same time I hope that they see a sinful, broken man. It's a paradox, I know, and one which I hope I can be an example of.
"Most days I don't even know." I stole that from Rachel's Facebook wall. It's the truth. I realize that my current mood swings come from my former steroid use (I just wanted to say that) but; some mornings I want to take Christ to the nations, and other mornings I want to take my faith in Him to the dumpster. They could white-wash that away easily, but it would mortify me.
There are certain things I want my grandchildren to know. I want them to know that all of my life I struggled with doubt - and that ultimately I chose Christ as my Saviour. Yes, Christ chose me ... but I had to choose to accept that gift - and I did. I hope that this fact alone is never washed away. I hope that if the only thing my grandkids know about me is this fact, well, I will die a happy old man.
I still want to change the world. I still want to hold on to Christ. I still want to love the Bible. I just struggle with these things. Praise God.

Well, I'm feeling much better now. I found out today that all of my symptoms are present because the side effects of my steroids won't go away for another week or two. I'm really glad. We are going to do a blood sugar level test to make sure that everything is alright, but I feel a lot better.
I went and talked to my advisor - who happens to be the head of the School of World Missions. We talked for a half hour and I told him that I had this school, being surrounded by hypocrites, feeling condemned for my "heretical" beliefs, and that I hate the Bible. He made me feel a lot better about things - and we are going to meet together to read the Bible twice a week. He is probably the most liberal professor on campus, and is giving me a chance to say whatever I want without feeling condemned. I told him in advance that I was on medicine and wasn't allowed to make any major decisions. I feel much better about things now.
I went to a creationism symposium that the school offered. It was interesting. Maybe next year they will bring in a whack job liberal who believes in evilution. Although I feel clostraphobic in the bubble - maybe I will learn to appreciate it.
I won't finish reading Mansfield Park. I'm going to cut my losses and start working on Northanger Abby. I'm teaching a lesson about it and am already getting nervous. I have the least insightful comments - ever - about Jane Austen's writing. I read on such a surface level, which is probably why I enjoy reading. I can get by in a conversation without analyzing anything. It's a great talent. I analyze later - when I blog.

Well, I'm going to go see the nurse in the morning. I think I am finally showing signs of having the same disease that afflicts my father. I'm having some side effects that dad has from his diabetes. I have mood swings, I get angry and bitter, and I judge everyone around me for all of their sins.
I had a really bad day today. I got really angry at God and told him I didn't want to deal with him anymore. I'm glad that my God takes me back - daily. I decided that I didn't want to come back to TFC next year. I decided this a long time ago, but I believe it now. I just feel that if I don't get out of here soon I'm going to lose what shreds of faith I have left.
Day in and day out I am surrounded by hypocrites. Not my friends, I love my friends. People don't look me in the eye anymore. That makes me die inside. I can't even explain how ridiculous that sounds to me, but it's the truth. I hate the Bible now - I don't want to pick it up off my floor. How do you suck all the life and vitality out of something so powerful? By forcing students to summarize every chapter in the whole book. Why do we keep offering sinners Hell - why do people keep offering ME Hell? Why do people who never talk to me doubt my salvation?
So, I'm going to go talk to the nurse about getting tested. I don't want to be like my father - ever. I want to get on the right medication and get out of this depressed state. Either way, I'm going to be praying really hard about leaving Toccoa. I'm going (hopefully) to Kazahkstan this summer. I want to make it a year long trip. I hope that if I can get out of the bubble for just a year maybe I can face it again. I want to get off the ark.

"I have a soul that comes out too late." - Robyn Bone.
My friend Robyn and I were discussing morality. I love his quote. There's something about the truth value in the statement which makes it so appealing. I mess up so much. I have done (and recently, too) some things that I don't want to think about - let alone blog about. I sin so very often. I curse like a sailor sometimes and just pray I won't drop the F-bomb while on the phone with my mom. I fail so often to forgive my Bible and Theology professors. I want so badly to cave to my carnal nature and write a big fat letter to Dr. Hildenbrand and explain to him how he has made me hate the Bible. In trying to defend his preciouse ancient text he has painted a picture of such a narrow, unforgiving, unrelenting god - one that I cannot worship. I belive that the bible is the sacred text for a religion that has little to do with Christianity. In the same way that a textbook clip about George Washington has little to do with my freedom. I'm so angry at my professors. They are so caught up getting the "proper theology" across to the students that they no longer see the bruised hearts, bleeding wounds, or blatant doubt which is so rampant at this school. Good job morons - we know the Bible but it doesn't even affect our lives enough to make us want to tell someone about it. I'm teetering somewhere in-between deciding on lifelong celibacy and going out to have promiscous(sp) sex with lots of random partners. These raging hormones - really God?

And all the time I just wish that my soul would show up a little earlier. I want to be consumed by God - but I'm caught between all the legalism/rules and living in sin. There has to be a balance ... and it isn't one that I can make. I realize, ultimately, that I too suck at grace.

We started playing a new game today. We finished out our Old Testament class in utter dismay. Our questions were laughed at and left unanswered. Our viewpoints dismissed. And I just kept my mouth shut because I would be stoned not only by the teacher but also by the class. We learned about the sacrificial lamb and other cleansing of sin practices. In a small circle of friends I discussed my disappointment in the class. I said damn. Eveyrone looked down at the ground shamefully. I was in a group of conservatives. I reached out and touched one of the boys and yelled "UNCLEAN - NO TAG BACKS!" We just kept going and tagging each other while shouting UNCLEAN! We all learned more from that simple game about how sacrifices worked than we had learned in class. To end the game someone who was tagged had to run into the woods away from the people. It was much fun. I think I'm going to keep playing. *Tags* UNCLEAN! NO TAGBACKS!

I sat in a coffee shop reading "The Ragamuffin Gospel" for more than an hour tonight. I am using a "gratis slip" for a bookmark. At TFC we get a thing called gratis (the latin word for grace or free) when we do something bad. It is a $10 fine or one hour of work. I couldn't think of a more ironic bookmark. I'm reading about grace, and the more I read about it the more I think I'm beginning to get it.
Shirley Phelps-Roper was on Foxnews today. She is the daughter of Fred Phelps - pastor of Westboro Baptist Church of Godhatesfags.com fame. She has been on the news several times - views of church members protesting military funerals, ranting about why God hates America, gays, liberals, soldiers, and everyone. "God is Your Enemy" is a favorite sign slogan. I forgave her today. I realized that not only does God not have a special segment of Hell for her father and her, but that God loves her and died for both or them.
That realization was hard for me. If God can love and forgive me, well-hell, God can forgive anyone. There's something freeing about grace. I've been trying to live my life with a lot more grace. I ignore some TFC rules, I buy my friends dinner, I try and forgive rabid conservatives for their ... er ... rabid conservatism.
I have been praying for weeks about applying for a job as a youth director. The boy I went to the Lavonia United Methodist Church with a few Sundays ago was initially so afraid of entering a Methodist church, but he fell in love. He told me that he felt led to apply for the job. I've decided to let him have the job without my competition. It was a "kingdom decision" I hope, but I know that it was a grace filled decision on my part. I really wanted that - and I felt so much confirmation. I have few doubts that soon God will provide a youth ministry for me and that this is God preparing me for that.
I hope that I can keep learning about grace - that God will continue to prepare me for all ministry.

I'm starting Mansfield Park today. I need to read 100 pages by tomorrow. I picked a bad day to stop by the church office and borrow "The Ragamuffin Gospel" from pastor Andy. I want nothing more than to plow through that book before starting Meansfield Park.

I cashed my September check today. I earned $50 in the month of September. And I'm supposed to live off of that? Looks like I'm going to use the credit card or pretend to plan a really hot date and beg for money again. Oh, college life is so stressful. I love sarcasm.

Maybe I will just read one chapter of Ragamuffin. Or two.

I'm praying for the people who read this blog. Not because it is that bad of a blog - give me some credit. I just really love the people who read what I write. If you're reading this - and you're not some creepy/bored person who doesn't know me- then know that I'm praying for you.

I love the woman at Wal-mart. Her name is Lorene. She is an older woman, her daughter and grandson don't have a lot of money. She always has a great smile on her face, but is obviously always overcome by the high speed which embodies Wal mart.
I always strike up a conversation with her - and since I'm in Wal mart at least once a day (It's so sad, but I'm in college and ... well, if I could think of another reason to justify daily Walmart runs I wouldn't be apologizing) I have a lot of oppertunities to talk to her. She read my hoodie today. "Healing comes to the broken places first." She was definetly caught off guard by how profound it was. I wish that it was more appropriate for a college kid to share his faith with a Walmart employee. I wish I could have asked her to take her break and I could have explained my own heart's brokeness and how Christ healed it.
I have two kids with whom I work every day. Clifford can't write his name yet (he did it once, but forgot), but his mother is certain he is the smartest boy Kindergarten has ever seen. Chloe lives in a house that doesn't have electricity or running water. I want to share Jesus with both of them. I want Clifford to see so much joy in my face when he finally gets his name down well that he will remember it for the rest of his life. I hope that some day when I visit Toccoa I will see him in Walmart, and he will remind me of my joy filled face. I want to tell him then that it was Jesus that gave me that joy.

There's a Brave Saint Saturn song that deals with all of these emotions. It's called "Heart Still Beats" and it talks about people who seem so lost and yet they still need to hear about Jesus (so profound.) I cried on my way to school this morning thinking about the fragile hearts behind the smiling faces of my kids at work. I keep hoping that they will see -someday- that I loved so generously because of the Christ I live for.