Questioning the Answers

When Certainty Ceases to Make Sense

Beauty and Brutality

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December 31, 2023. I wasn’t thinking much about the date on this New Year’s Eve morning as I eased out of bed, poured a cup of coffee, and made my way upstairs to the den (I prefer to call it the library, but den sounds less pretentious). 

I got comfy to sit in silence for a spell. Call it meditation. Call it contemplative prayer. Call it what you want. Quieting the mind on some days is easier than others. Today it took a minute for the incessant stream of thoughts to dissipate, but it did and, before long, I was sitting in beautiful nothingness. 

It was in the solitude of that nothingness that, at one point, something dropped in.

“25 years ago, Dave. 25 years ago today you got engaged.”

Wow. I did a quick mental double take and validated the math of the still, small, voiceless voice that dropped this tidbit into my psyche. Sure enough. 25 years. 

I tried to let it pass so I could return to the nothingness, but it wasn’t easy to let go. 

The memory of the night I got engaged was now vividly present, colored with every detail of the evening’s unfolding. The location. The set-up. The presence of my best friend and his wife. The fusion of nerves and excitement. The details were unending. 

It was a pleasant memory, notably bereft of wistful or sorrowful feelings. More present than anything was the thought of how long ago it seemed.  

25 years. A lifetime ago. Or half a lifetime, I guess. 

I wondered what it would’ve been like if the me of then had been given a glimpse of what life was going to look like 25 years later.

Divorced. “Out,” as they like to say. A deconstructed faith (which the me of then equated with being destined for hell). And dealing with a medical diagnosis that has launched its fair share of fear-laden Molotov cocktails at me. 

I had a sudden appreciation for the wisdom of not wanting to know the future (“Say, maybe that’s why divination is frowned on in the Bible.”). Because sometimes what the future holds is simply too brutal for our present reality to comprehend. Or at least it appears too brutal.

And when we glimpse that kind of brutality, we usually have one goal in mind: avoid it at all costs (unless it’s not our own, in which case we may stare with a morbid curiosity that knows we can look away at any moment, untouched). So we flinch, fight, deny, defend, avoid, assert, shield, scorn, beat, bury… or some combination thereof. 

All because we can’t imagine life looking like that. We can’t imagine being able to endure such brutality, let alone that anything good could come from it. 

When we live with unyielding ideas about how things are supposed to be – including big things like the concepts of truth or right vs. wrong or fairness vs. unjustness – it can create a rigidity that closes us off to possibility. 

If the Me of December 31, 1998 were given a glimpse of my life today, he couldn’t have handled it. He would’ve fought tooth and nail against it, because destruction is all he would’ve been capable of seeing. 

But the Me of December 31, 2023 sees differently. 

He sees a meaningful relationship with his ex-wife and relationships with his kids that keep getting better. 

He sees his sexuality as something healthy and sacred, not the abomination that a lifetime of religion helped him to internalize at a cellular level for so many years. 

He sees a faith that continues to be reconstructed into something more expansive and life-giving than ever, rooted in love, wonder, and possibility. 

He even sees the medical diagnosis as a gift (at least on his good days). 

Would I want to repeat the times of pain and fear and sorrow and struggle that separate the me of then from the me of now? No, of course not. 

But would I change anything? No, because I’d only revert back to old patterns of rigidity and control and fear, the very things that the so-called brutality has been working to free me from.

The Me of December 31, 1998 saw what he was capable of seeing at the time. What he needed to see at the time, I suppose.

The Me of December 31, 2023? He’s thankful for his current vantage point. 

Thankful to see the subtle intentionality woven into the journey and challenges of life. 

Thankful to see beauty in the brutality.

The Canvas of the Divine

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The other morning I was out on a run, which is a newish thing for me these days. It was chilly and I was bundled up accordingly. Winter days here can be bright, sunny, and brimming with vitality or downright dark, dreary, and pregnant with desperation. This one was somewhere in between. 

My route took me through some underwhelming neighborhood scenery, but then crossed the Spokane River and dumped me onto the Centennial Trail for a brief stretch. My feet continued their rhythmic pattern on the pavement and my breath appeared before me briefly with each exhale. 

My eyes danced about. The trail ahead. A squirrel darting into the nearby bushes. The train trestle. The river and its silent flow. Three elderly gentlemen with a dog. And then up to the bluish gray sky and the clouds against its canvas.

The sky caught and held my attention in a way that it doesn’t often. The clouds, specifically. There was a distinct beauty to their formation that morning. Design and texture and interplay that seemed so… intentional. It was remarkable, really. 

I glanced back to the trail in front of me for a moment before returning my gaze to the sky and getting lost in its artwork. 

“Nature is absolutely stunning,” I thought to myself. How is it that such beauty is being created in this one localized patch of sky above little ole Spokane, Washington? How can clouds even do that?

It promptly brought me back to last summer. It was July and I was in Tucson (yes, I made the intentional decision to go to Arizona in the heat of summer). I was at a mixer of sorts and was struck by the number of people – many of whom weren’t native to the area – who spoke about the innately sacred and spiritual vibe to the local land. I’d gotten similar inklings myself, even in the limited time I’d spent there. 

As the sun set and the light magically shifted against the backdrop of the Santa Catalina Mountains, a couple of us talked about the idea that nature is such a fantastic representation of spirituality and of God or the Divine (or whichever other term we’d like to use to refer to something unnamable). It beautifully and perfectly represents spiritual themes like life, death, rebirth, transformation, interconnectedness, and impermanence.

But here’s the thing about nature that I think religion could take some cues from.

Nature just is.

It isn’t something to be debated or argued about or insisted upon. It doesn’t need to be justified or defended. It doesn’t need to be systemized. It doesn’t need theology to define it or apologetics to prove it or certain beliefs to access it. It’s not limited to certain groups; it’s not exclusive at all. It’s universal. 

It just is. 

It’s there to be witnessed. Experienced. Appreciated. Tapped into. Communed with. 

It’s there to speak to us. Beckon us. Refresh us. Teach us. Challenge us. Inspire us. Humble us. Move us. Remind us. Transform us. Spur us on.

It’s there because it is and it always will be.

All we need to do is open our eyes to it and allow ourselves to engage it, ideally with a curious, appreciative, and receptive posture.

It was a simple but sacred few moments, our conversation being witnessed by the shifting desert landscape as the magical night sky made its entrance. 

The rhythmic pattern of my feet on the pavement brought me back to the trail and the clouds. Their design. Their interplay. Their beauty, destined to last only a short time before the inevitable shapeshifting turned it into a memory. A memory that, thankfully, is now mine.

“How can clouds even do that?” The question dissipated as quickly as my breath on the next exhale.

Of course they can do that. It’s what they do. 

It’s the magic. It’s the mystery.

It’s the canvas of the Divine.

The Good News of How Bad We Are

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A couple weeks before the Corona lockdown ensued, I met a friend for breakfast on a Sunday morning at a local diner, a decadent dive of sorts that probably hasn’t been renovated in 30 years, has a menu that stretches to the Idaho border, and serves cinnamon rolls that are as big as your head. 

It’s the kind of place where I’d picture a 57-year-old hardened detective nursing a cup of coffee as he uses empty sugar packets and a smoldering ashtray to intently recreate a crime scene for a rookie cop sitting across the table, all the while allowing a cigarette to dangle precariously from the corner of his mouth, its smoke streaming up and disappearing into a dense haze that blankets the air. Back when smoking in public was a thing, of course. 

That morning, as I slipped into a dark-green vinyl booth and waited for my friend to show up, there was no such excitement going on. Four older women were at the table next to me, their conversation nondescript. A couple people sat at the counter on the other side of the restaurant. 

After a few minutes, two men carrying Bibles came in and sat down at a nearby table. I’d guess the older man was in his fifties, the younger man probably in his thirties. The older man’s Bible was very large. A statement piece, of sorts.

I didn’t pay much attention to their doings, figuring they were going to have a Bible study over breakfast. “Knock yourselves out, guys,” I thought to myself. “Just be careful where you wield that big ole thing.” 

My friend showed up and we started to catch up on the latest goings on in our lives. As we talked, we’d occasionally hear a distinct comment from the Bible Table. It was mostly the older guy, who seemed to be getting louder for emphasis. The table was in my line of sight and I noticed the man growing more and more animated as the conversation continued. His big Bible was flopped open, small pieces of paper with notes on them scattered about.

It was clear they weren’t having a Bible study. The younger guy didn’t have his Bible open at all. He was listening to the older guy, responding mostly with nods and uh-huh’s . 

My friend and I weren’t interested in what was transpiring at that table, but we kept clearly hearing the words “gospel” and “sin” rising to the surface. Then it became clear. He was practicing a sermon, and the more he mentioned sin, the louder and more animated and intense he got. This diatribe was definitely meant for an audience.

He started to throw in the word “cross,” at which point the intensity was mixed with palpable indignation. We could feel it from our table, exchanging almost uncomfortable glances with each other. 

Occasionally, he broke out of “preacher” mode to mentor the younger man, insisting that “people need to understand,” and mentioning “the congregation,” “sin,” and “the cross.”

We did our best to block out the distraction, but then, after the man returned to preacher mode, he said something neither of us could block out.

“No matter how good you feel, you’ll never know how bad you are.”

The words were delivered with bold intensity. With conviction. With a rage that was controlled, yet unmistakable. 

My eyes locked on my friend’s, stunned. His jaw dropped in disbelief.

“Wait. Did he actually just say that?” I asked. Thinking maybe I misheard, I repeated the words. “‘No matter how good you feel, you’ll never know how bad you are.’ Is that what he said?”

My friend nodded. “Yeah, that’s what he said.”

We stared at each other, stupefied. 

My jaw clenched and I felt my blood start to boil. Part of me wanted to storm his table and unleash a string of f-bombs and tell him what he could do with his gigantic Bible. 

But I took a deep breath, looked off to the side and then back into my friend’s eyes, and simply said “Can you believe that’s the world we came from?”

He had a slightly nauseated look on his face. “I know.”

It’s super ironic, because “gospel” means “good news.” And this man’s passionate exhortation was peppered with the term.

Yet, the gospel that’s been crystallized within the greater Christian world has a huge element that, unfortunately, can be summed up with what this man said: No matter how good you feel, you’ll never know how bad you are.

Sure, it may be packaged more attractively, edited for consumability, and delivered with more finesse and grace, but that’s the underlying message. 

At the very core of who we are, we’re messed up. We’re lacking. We’re unworthy. We have no intrinsic value apart from choosing the proper response to being told that we’re messed up, lacking, unworthy, and without intrinsic value. 

And, as this gentleman was so eager to point out, we better not forget it. “You’ll never know how bad you are.”

This message wasn’t only happening at the table in the diner in preparation for a Sunday sermon. It’s a message that’s rampant. 

And damaging.

Words have power. We all know that. Science has proven it. The Bible even speaks to this effect. 

I’ve made some bad choices with my kids over the years and I’ve said some things I wish I hadn’t, but I would never, ever think of saying something like “No matter how good you feel, you’ll never know how bad you are.”

Put in this context, it’s a no-brainer. If I did say something like that to my kids, I’d probably get lambasted from everyone who knew I’d done it. And rightly so. 

And yet so much of the Christian world is marinating in this very message. Absorbing it, whether consciously or subconsciously and being affected accordingly. 

The problem is it isn’t true. It’s just bad theology. Theology that was surprisingly absent for the first thousand plus years of the church’s existence. 

This is why my blood can start to boil and I want to start dropping f-bombs. Because this message can be crippling and people are internalizing it as truth when they don’t need to. When they shouldn’t be.

My friend and I expressed gratitude for extricating ourselves from that form of religion, then quickly carried on with our time together.

I’m not sure who was ultimately on the other end of that man’s message. But it was a Sunday morning, so I’m sure countless people near and far were about to be on the other end of some form of that message. 

And unfortunately, it’s a fiercely protected message. I remember years ago when I started to push against the message in my own church at the time, only to find myself one night at a table surrounded by people in church leadership showing me scripture to “prove” that in and of myself I was, in fact, an object of wrath.

It was a quick reminder that pushing against something only creates more resistance. So I walked away. I need more than social-distancing from a message that says I’m an object of wrath.

Sometimes I see people standing on street corners holding signs that say things like “You are enough,” “You are worthy,” “You are beautiful.” 

And I think that maybe someday these messages will make their way into the greater church. And that they’ll be sufficient on their own, absent of any form of “You’ll never know how bad you are.”

I’m hopeful that the narrative will change. I’m not sure how it’ll happen, but I’m hopeful. I mean, it is changing in some places, I just wish it would happen more quickly for the sake of those in the pews.

But I guess the Titanic doesn’t turn on a dime.


Image credit (all images from Pixabay):
Field landscape by enriquelopezgarre
Bible by StockSnap
Grassy walk by Tabeajaichhalt