closet (un)spirituality

There's a problem with society today. Do you want to know what it is?

I wish you would believe in God and accept Christ as your saviour.

That isn't the problem. In my understanding, that's a perfectly valid thing to wish for. How many times have you imagined what the world would be like if everyone agreed with you? How many times have you tried to find someone who understood what you were dealing with and come up short? It's valid, and it's natural. The problem is that you still took offense to it.

I mean, I'm sorry if I want you to be a Christian. Which I do. Actually, I'm not sorry; I'd love it if you were. Would it change things between us? Sure, and why not? There's a feeling and a joy about it that I'd love to share with any of you, because it's just that amazing. I'm sure you atheists are thinking in reverse, and imagining how much better off I'd be if I shunned my ignorant ways. So you see, it works in both directions.

So why bother hiding it? Why is it that we get so worked up when someone says "You should/shouldn't believe in God"? (As a matter of fact, atheists sort of have an advantage in that regard, because it's a LOT worse when you try to tell someone that they should believe in God than when you tell them they shouldn't.) But at any rate, why keep it in? Sure, people go on and on about being entitled to their own opinions, having a right to (not) believe, having a right to (not) be controlled and confined by some malignant and corrupt corporate religious structure, etc etc, ad infinitum, ad absurdum, ad nauseum. Thanks, I got all that; and by the way, way to be closed-minded! Your absolute refusal to deviate from your present course is astounding. I guess we Christians aren't the only ones who refuse to accept any other truth but our own.

People are entitled to their own opinions. People should also be entitled to hear others. It shouldn't be a crime to try to get your friends to see your point of view. There's also no need to be juvenile and mock people because they decided to have balls and open their mouths. Life is about learning, and being opinionated is just our way of trying to teach what little there is that we're sure about. So GET OVER IT. And if you aren't willing to take part in the whole process and all you want to do is run back into your little protective (a)theistic box and throw rocks at people as they walk by, then this isn't even a matter of opinion for you. You really do need the Gospel to help make you a functioning and intellectually productive member of society.

footnote/endnote/preface

Sextuple-post today. Don't worry, it's actually not as much as it seems.

The following five posts are the written form of everything that was read out yesterday night at Gilead. They're together a story of an encounter with the holy God in a tangible, experiential way. Please don't let the first little bit turn you off, because (I think) it gets better as it goes on. I've posted them in reverse order so that you can read top-down in the order they're meant to be read.

It's snowing right now. I love opening my window on a weekend morning and seeing the snow fall. It helps that the trees around here are picturesquely winter-like too. Mmm, I love Canada. And I really don't want to have to leave this house. It looks so cozy with the coat of snow.

I believe in a miraculous God, and I owe him my thanks for leading us through another potentially rough night. And thanks, Kenny, for doing all of everything for the program. Clare, thank you for singing, you are very young.

If you venture to read the following five posts, enjoy. Hope you get something out of them.

let me tell you...

Let me tell you a story about holiness. Let me tell you about coming face to face with divinity, about the beauty of the Creator manifest in his creation. Let me tell you what God is to me. And if you’ve ever wondered, if you’ve ever searched, if you’ve ever lost your way, then listen. Come out from the crowd, to the water’s edge, and wash your hands clean. Cleanse your soul and come into a holy space, into the tabernacle of the High King, and see God the way he was meant to be seen: in awe of his power and splendour. Come, be still; close your eyes and breathe in deeply. Come and listen.

Come and listen,
Come to the water's edge,
All you who are thirsty, come...

Let me tell you what he has done for me,
Let me tell you what he has done for me,
He has done for you,
He has done for us...

waiting

Close your eyes. Breathe deep. Feel the cold air rush into your lungs. Hold it in – and let it out. It’s the only thing you can see when you exhale. The pale moonlight barely keeps these frozen walls lit, and the occasional cover of clouds pulls you back into the pitch-black of the night. You’re shivering now; it’s cold as ice in here. But you can’t leave now. “Go out,” he said, “and stand on the mountain before the LORD.” So here you are, standing. Waiting.

A draft sweeps through the air and raises the hairs on your arms. You gasp and cringe as your shivering intensifies. It subsides, and you hear the whistle of wind passing by outside. A moment passes before another, stronger gust fills the cavern. Now the whistling has amplified into a roar, and your hair whips up and about in the torrent. Outside, rocks and debris, torn from the earth against their will, smash against the mountain face. Clenching your fists, you lower your stance as you struggle to stay on your feet; and then, without warning, the wind stops. The air returns to stagnancy, and the night is silent again. You think to step outside and investigate, but his words echo in your mind, and you stay where you are.

Before you have a chance to think further, the ground is wrenched out from under your feet. You collapse in a heap as the entire cavern is rocked violently from side to side; it’s as if the mountain itself is being uprooted and torn down. Rocks dislodge overhead and thick clouds of dust fill your vision. Coughing, squinting, you stumble across the cave and towards the only way out. Another tremor throws you against the wall as more debris falls from above. The air is heavy with dust now and you can’t tell which direction you came from. Your mouth feels chalky and your eyes are beginning to tear when the quaking dies down, reducing to a faint vibration in the stony walls.

You cough again, unable to avoid breathing in the dust. It’s as if you’re seeing everything through a haze – but now you can make out the entrance of the cave. The light outside is casting an eerie yellow glow against the far wall, and you notice that it’s growing brighter. Again, you want to step outside, but the one you’re waiting for still has yet to arrive. The light has by now bled into a reddish hue, and a distant rumble becomes audible. The rumble builds in a crescendo of noise, and you wonder what could possibly be thrown at you next. You have only enough time to take two steps back before a pillar of fire scorches past the mountain, scalding the outermost part of the cave as it goes by. The flames are bright and blinding, and their heat dispels the cold that lingers around you. The fire seems to burn without end, until at last it dissipates and leaves only smoke and heat and the smell of charred coals in its wake. The air is suffocating, and your head begins to reel; you want nothing more than to leave this cave and be at home again, comfortable, content. But he hasn’t come yet.

And then you hear it. In the dead of the night, you can make out a voice, just barely, a gentle whisper that sings your name. Your eyes light up and you run out into the night, saying, “I’m here, Lord, I’m here!” And at the mouth of the cave you stop suddenly and fall to the ground before God, the God of Israel, the Ancient of Days who commands the winds and the earth and fire, and tears begin to well in your eyes.

You feel a hand rest on your head, and a voice that sounds like a river flowing says to you, “Do not be afraid. I am the First and the Last.” The hand draws away and you raise your eyes and your hands to heaven. And in this one perfect moment you stand to your feet before God and begin to sing, your voice echoing off the mountainside.

We stand and lift up our hands,
For the joy of the Lord is our strength,
We bow down, and worship him now,
How great, how awesome is he!

together we sing...

Your ears fill with the music of the angels. Their words resound off the walls with power, together a mighty choir raising their voices to God. You close your eyes and linger in the magnificence of their chorus, as one cries out to the other: “Holy is the LORD God Almighty, the earth is filled with his glory!” Their song shakes the great pillared foundations of the temple, and smoke fills the sanctuary.

Overhead the angels stand, adorned in linen robes, each with six wings – two covering their faces, two their feet, and two spread wide to keep themselves aloft. Directly below them is a great throne of white flame, burning brilliantly in the midst of the smoke, towering over a great bowl-like altar full of hot coals; and seated on the throne is a being so magnificent, so radiant that the sight of him blinds your eyes. His overpowering light finds every nook and cranny and corner, and there are no shadows cast anywhere. The train of his kingly purple robe fills the floor of the temple, hemming just short of where you stand, and on it the words are written: KING OF KINGS AND LORD OF LORDS. As you read this inscription, the voices of the angels resonate louder and louder like thunder in the sky.

One of them descends from above and approaches you. His form is radiant, and the span of his wings fills your vision. Without a thought you fall to the floor, to worship his heavenly image. “No!” the angel cries out. “I am a fellow servant of yours, and of your brethren.” He folds his great wings and steps aside, restoring to your view the throne and the King. “Worship God!”

Your heart fills with grief. “I’m unworthy,” you say, “and my lips are unclean. I can’t worship God.” Without hesitation, the angel moves to the altar and picks out a burning coal with a pair of tongs. Turning, he approaches you, and you take a deep breath as he raises the stone to your lips. There is a loud hiss as it makes contact with your mouth, and a light plume of smoke rises to the ceiling, but you feel no pain. “Your iniquity is taken away, and your sin is purged,” he tells you as he removes the coal.

Then, as he returns to the altar, the angels above begin to sing a different song. Their voices envelop you, and you realize that on all sides the throne is surrounded by thousands upon thousands of other angels. Their voices rock the temple walls, and the floor below you trembles as they sing of the holiness of God. With cleansed lips, awestruck by the sheer glory of God and the host that worships him, you join with the angels in their song.

The splendour of the King,
Clothed in majesty,
Let all the earth rejoice...

He wraps himself in light,
And darkness tries to hide,
And trembles at his voice...

who has created these things?

“Lift your eyes and look to the heavens,” he says. You look up into the misty night. The moon fills the southern sky, perfectly circular, so brightly lit against the black backdrop of space. Around it hang a myriad of celestial bodies, of distant stars, arranged in intricate constellations. “Who has created these things?”

He takes your hand and pulls you away from the earth, into the air. Higher, higher you rise, through a great cloud. You reach out to grasp it but it slips through your fingers. Even further away he draws you, until at last you can see Earth beneath you in its entirety. You marvel at its beauty; how wispy white clouds swirl over dark masses of blue and green. For only a second are you able to drink in its splendour before he leads you, much faster this time, past Mars, through the asteroid belt, past the gas giants. Earth quickly disappears from view and stars streak past as you move through the vast expanse. You come to a halt far out beyond the edge of the galaxy and you turn, looking into its blindingly bright centre. To your right a huge nebula expands to the far limits of your vision, its orange-green pillars reaching out into its surrounding space. And ever-present, ever-luminous, the fierce brightness of the stars surrounds you on all sides, so perfectly white, pinpoints of light interspersed by darkness.

“Who has created these things?” he asks again. “Who brings out their host by number, and calls them all by name?” He reaches out with his hand, cupping the Milky Way in his palm and drawing it before you. “Not one of them is missing,” he tells you, motioning with his other hand, “by the greatness of my might and the strength of my power, not one is missing.”

“Have you not known? Have you not heard? Has it not been told to you from the beginning?” In an instant he returns you to the ground you stood on moments ago, and he guides your attention to a tall line of ancient willow trees, standing vigilant nearby. In the night breeze they sway gently, the rustle of their leaves like a fall of rain, and from the top of the highest tree a crow launches into flight, coasting across the horizon. “Have you not understood from the foundations of the earth?” Again he motions, this time to the sky. “It is I who sits above the circle of the earth, whose inhabitants are like grasshoppers before me. It is I who stretches out the heavens like a curtain and spreads them out like a tent to dwell in.”

You fall to your knees before him, your head bowed. Words escape you and you kneel in silence, unsure of what to think or say. A moment passes before you feel his hand on your chin, gently lifting your head. He looks into your eyes, and says, “I created your inmost being; I knit you together in your mother’s womb.”

You spread out the skies over empty space,
Said, "Let there be light,"
And to a dark and formless world,
Your light was born...

thank you

There is stillness. Silence. The screams, the taunts, all have ceased, and now the world is silent. Few people remain here; the day is quickly turning to night, and most of the crowds have turned away and left. The smell of blood still hangs in the air, but it’s the least of your concerns.

A young man stands beside an elderly woman nearby. Tears stream down their faces, and now the woman falls to her knees and sobs. The hem of her garment is drenched, and you know that she has been crying for some time. Her sobbing echoes down the hill, to the houses nearby.

You take a handful of dirt from the ground. It’s hard, brittle, and feels dead in your fingers. Chunks of earth crumble into dust as you crush them. You wipe your hands on your sides, but they are still dirty.

Then you hear a voice saying, “Woman, behold your son!” You turn; the man and the woman have stopped crying, and are now looking up. You follow their gaze to the two wooden beams nailed perpendicular to each other, and to the man who himself is nailed to them. His body is covered in sweat and dirt and blood, his head adorned with a crown of thorns, and his body shivers uncontrollably. He coughs several times before turning his head to the young man. “Behold your mother!” he cries out. The two then turn, slowly, and walk back down the hill.

You approach the foot of the cross, your feet following the trail of blood that marks the ground. You stop just short of it, fearing being yourself marked by the blood that drips constantly from his mangled body. You hardly can bring yourself to look up at him.

“Why are you here?”

You are startled by the question. “I don’t understand,” you reply.

He looks down, staring directly into your eyes. “The Son of Man must be delivered into the hands of sinful men and be crucified,” he says, “and the third day rise again.”

You feel tears welling in your eyes. “Why?”

“Show me your hands,” he says to you. For a second you hesitate; then you raise your hands as high as you can to him.

“Touch my feet,” he tells you. You take one look at the giant nail hammered through his feet and step away.

“Listen to me!” he says, his voice urgent. “I have paid the price already. I have taken away the punishment you deserved. My body has suffered for your sins.” With his head, he motions you again to touch his feet. “And my blood will cleanse you of all unrighteousness.”

You step forward, slowly, unsure. A wave of thoughts comes crashing down on you. You stare at the nails, at the wounds that have been inflicted. And, summoning all of your courage, you reach out and lay your hands on his feet.

You hear a sharp intake of breath, and you know you have caused him pain. You look away, tears rolling down your face. Then you hear his voice once more, crying out, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit!”

There is silence for what seems like an eternity. When you finally look up, the man on the cross has gone limp, and you know that he is dead. You take a step back, unable to utter a word, before even thinking to look down at your hands. You instinctively move to wipe them on your sides again, but you stop yourself. Raising your palms to your face, you realize that there is no blood or dirt on them. They are clean.

You look back at the cross. A cloud is forming overhead, and it seems as though a storm is coming. You turn away to climb down the hill to your home, then turn back again and say two words: “Thank you.”

Thank you for saving me,
Thank you for saving me...
Thank you for loving me,
Thank you for loving me...

rescue

I've got to tell you something -- I don't have much time, but I've got to tell you, because this is probably the most important thing I'll ever say in my life: I've sinned, and fallen miles short of glory. There was a race to righteousness and I gave out before the goal was even in sight. My life is so wholly insincere that I'm amazed at how people can profess to know who I am. I don't even know who I am. If I could have my way, I'd be dead. In fact, I might just already be dead.

There I was, in the deepest waters, at the edge of the furious whirlpool of my sin, thinking, "I'll escape now from this world. I'll escape now from this world." But escape wasn't what I was looking for. I just wanted to swim a little further until I was out of its reach, until I was safe enough for the moment to keep breathing without having to worry about destruction. And when the vortex grew, I'd keep on swimming just beyond its pull, but never committing more than I had to.

I've come to the end of myself. I don't have anywhere else left to run. I need rescue. Come down, come down from your firey throne; break through the clouds, reach down with your hand and rescue me.

beautiful day

When you look at the world, what is it that you see? People find all kinds of things that bring them to their knees. The clouds, the sidewalks; a summer day that lingers longer than it should. Couples kissing on the subway, babies in strollers. Grandparents out for a walk in the afternoon. How the brightest of street lights still seems dimmer than the stars, or how traffic stops and time stands still when an ambulance drives by. An empty terminal at the airport. An empty bedroom at home. Scars that've healed, and wounds that don't. The geese that block the road, the crows that nest at the tops of willow trees. The robins that nest in the gutter. Cherry blossoms in the spring, orchids in the summer, all the colours of fall that fade into white when winter comes.

Beauty is in everything; it's just a matter of finding it. There's no need to try to make it, and really, how successful could you ever be? It wasn't you, after all, who made the birds or wove the clouds or painted the stars in the sky. Take a walk outside and see for yourself; you don't need to do anything or be anyone to see it. We're always so convinced that we've got to make things more beautiful, somehow, than they already are. Hope and life in demanding social circumstances come from looking good and standing out, from talent and ability, from expensive fashion and high culture. Take a moment and feel your heart beat. There is hope. There is life. Everything else is postscript and trivial, and no one reads the appendices anyways. What you don't have, you don't need it now; what you don't know, you can feel it somehow...

It's a beautiful day. Don't let it get away.

fitter, happier

More productive. Comfortable. Not drinking too much. Regular exercise at the gym (3 days a week). Getting on better with your associate employee contemporaries. At ease. Eating well (no more microwave dinners and saturated fats). A patient, better driver. A safer car (baby smiling in back seat). Sleeping well (no bad dreams). No paranoia. Careful to all animals (never washing spiders down the plughole).

Keep in contact with old friends (enjoy a drink now and then). Will frequently check credit at (moral) bank (hole in wall). Favours for favours. Fond but not in love. Charity standing orders. On Sundays, ring road supermarket. (no killing moths or putting boiling water on the ants). Car wash (also on Sundays). No longer afraid of the dark, or midday shadows. Nothing so ridiculously teenaged and desperate. Nothing so childish.

At a better pace. Slower and more calculated. No chance of escape. Now self-employed. Concerned (but powerless). An empowered and informed member of society (pragmatism, not idealism). Will not cry in public. Less chance of illness. Tyres that grip in the wet (shot of baby strapped in back seat). A good memory. Still cries at a good film. Still kisses with saliva. No longer empty and frantic like a cat tied to a stick that's driven into frozen winter s---(the ability to laugh at weakness).

Calm. Fitter, healthier, and more productive. A pig, in a cage, on antibiotics.

Is this what you're looking for?

gearshift

Now's a sort of short-term lifestyle shift for me. Not a drastic one, since for the most part my lifestyle doesn't really change -- I tend to keep a steady balance of fun and necessary. It's more of a shift away from having a good deal of my thought occupied by school and studying (university is a pain like that). But now that essays and tests are pretty much done with until the end of November, I've got time. Which means, of course, one of two things: time for myself or time for God.

Lately I've been promising myself that I'll do a lot of things to improve my spiritual life. Praying before meals has been one of them. I'm also trying to do candle-lighting prayers every night, but specifically for other people. There are a million other ways that I could try to grow closer to God, but I'm taking things one step at a time.

Things are changing. On the one hand, I feel almost a little hypocritical for taking the time now to focus on God while before I'd penciled him out of my schedule. On the other, this work-hiatus feels quite divinely motivated -- I've finished all of my major school work just in time for Nashville and Passion -- and I wouldn't doubt for a second that this has all been according to the will of God. Life is beautiful.

And for those of you who don't know what Nashville is: I'm going down there from the 17th to the 21st with Clare, Kenny, Ralph, Clarence, and Roger for the National Youth Workers' Convention. I'm really excited about it, because it means that I'll have five days with nothing really to think about other than God, and that I'll also be in the best hotel room ever (Get Rid Of Slimy girlS). Passion is a conference with Louie Giglio and his Texan homies, in Toronto on the 22nd at Ricoh Coliseum.

Somewhat totally unrelated, but to Cecilia and Henry: thanks for that random message yesterday. I don't know why, but it made me happier, even though I only read it twenty minutes ago this morning. We'll talk more.

On Thursday, this beautiful Asian girl who goes to my school turned 18. I got her something shiny.

winter

I want the days to turn to night. I want warmth and sunlight to be swept away by snowstorms. The world falls to its knees in penitence when winter sets in, and I couldn't ask for anything more. There's no better place for honesty than where it's too dark for anyone to see me and too cold for anyone to care.

Call me out of the darkness when the snow begins to fall. Take this frozen soul and shake contrition from its crumbling foundations. Salvage whatever godliness is left in my heart; bend my will before the throne of Holy God.

Turn the page on this apostate era. Take me to a place where loneliness and depravity have no meaning. Pour out forgiveness on my broken spirit. Let me find redemption in perfect solitude, without distraction and without hindrance. Let me find redemption.

And always remind me that the light is brighter and the warmth is warmer in the pitch-black of a cold winter night.

interim

First things first:

In the name of Holy God, I denounce every man, woman and child who reads what's posted on this blog and doesn't comment.

Now, in light of the fact that this place is lacking happy thoughts, and in light of the fact that I've been tagged... here it is.

(Rules: post five weird and random things about yourself, then list the names of the next five people in line to do the same)

1. I'm quite unadventurous, despite any other impressions you might have... i.e. it took me two years to move from green apple green tea to green apple black tea.

2. I've been in six physical fights at school. They all happened in a span of 3 years, and I got suspension warnings for three of them. I also never lost.

3. If I could play any instrument, it'd be the electric guitar. No, wait, it'd be the bagpipe.

4. From pre-kindergarten until grade 4 or 5, I was entirely convinced that I would grow up to be a professional violinist, hockey player, and paleontologist -- all at the same time.

5. When I was born, I was crying incessantly for no apparent reason at all. No one could figure out what was wrong with me. Then my mom fed me and I shut up.

I tag Byron, Heidi, Gitch, Clare, and Samantha Cheung. Owned.

"you look so lonely..."

"What?" It took me a second to realize that he was talking to me. "Uh, no I don't."

"Well how would you know if you can't even see yourself?" He laughed when I gave no answer. "Trust me, as someone with a more... objective frame of reference, I'm telling you that you look lonely."

I shook my head. "Well I'm not. I'm just tired, I woke up at like 4 this mor--"

"... yeah, whatever, you always say that." He sat down across from me. "I'm starting to doubt it. I mean, you looked pretty energetic when you were with them a second ago."

I followed his gesture to the cluster of my classmates that sat a few tables down, then looked back, rolling my eyes. "'kay, whatever, what do you want?"

"Did I have to want something?"

I glared at him. "What're you--"

"No, honestly, did I?"

"... what's your point?"

"Am I just here for my five-minute, once-a-day conversation? Do I just go back to my happy life when I'm done?"

I looked away.

He sighed. "Some people actually care."

"Yeah, well, thanks." I tried to smile. "Means a lot."

His eyes studied my face for a moment. "Y'know, there's a certain point when having a lot of people to call 'friends' really stops mattering to you."

I gave no reply.

"... 'cause someday, you'll be up in the morning with a million things going through your mind and not a single one of them is gonna be there for you to talk to."

"I've heard this before--"

"I know, I'm just saying... I'm just telling you how pointless it is to have more."

"Yeah, well..." I shrugged. "Least that way you've got someone."

"Don't you get it?" His voice began to shake. "Don't you see?"

There was a silence, but I didn't want to look up to see if he was done. "Get what?"

"Why do you think I'm here? Why the hell am I talking to you if I can just go and talk to any other person I want to?" Heads turned at some of the tables nearby.

We were both quiet for a while. Out of my periphery I could see him raise his hands to his face. It was some time before I finally shook my head and laughed. "Well, damn..." I looked up at him. "You look pretty lonely too."

"Yeah." He leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment. "Think we all do."