Vanity of Vanities: A Stumbling Beginning to Advent

My Homiletics class recently finished a preaching series through the book of Ecclesiastes. It struck me again this evening how true the words of Q'oheleth really are. 

Vanity of vanities.

The Teacher, or Q'oheleth, explores all aspects of life to find that everything is inherently meaningless. Vanity of vanities, meaningless, all is meaningless, like a chasing after the wind. Everything that seems to hold so much promise, when pushed, turns out to be yet another bitter disappointment. 

Vanity of vanities.

Look at life, we spend so much time pursuing pointless things, keeping up on celebrities, sports games, trying to be popular, to look a certain way, trying to achieve at the things we are in, get good grades, win trophies, scholarships, bursaries, awards and accolades. We are all enslaved to the pointless dance of trying to make meaning out of our meaningless lives. 

Vanity of vanities.

I've run myself ragged lately trying to achieve. I'm so busy that I don't enjoy anything that I do, yet I am commended for doing all that I do. People look to me as a leader, I know everyone, and I find it impossible to say no to any request. 

Vanity of vanities.

If everything is meaningless, what's the point? Should we not all succumb to the natural conclusions of nihilism? Or perhaps we must continue in our deluded existentialism, denying the vanity of existence and forcing our reality to take on a semblance of dignity. 

Vanity of vanities.

No. Today is the start of Advent, the beginning of the Church year and a time of anticipating the coming of a Saviour. Our pursuits may be meaningless, yet there are many things in this life that make life worth living. A sunrise, a good cup of tea, a beautiful line of poetry, fresh snow, a smile from a friend. As vain and meaningless as these might be, they are good. 

Vanity of vanities?

The Teacher reminds us to remember the Creator of our youth, to cling to the one who gives meaning and purpose to our truly vain and obscene little lives. We remember, and anticipate, for soon, Emmanuel will be here. And so we wait, appreciating the small, sublime moments of bliss, and knowing that purpose, meaning and life are here in the waiting.

An Invitation to Pray

What is prayer? This is a question I have been asking for years and every so often I gain a small insight. For the last year and a half I have been involved in a small group of people that have committed to gathering every morning for prayer. This experience has been life-changing for me and has taught me a lot about prayer.

A few weeks ago, the new of Chief of Police in Winnipeg made a request to the citizens of the city to pray for one another and for the well-being of the city. He said that if everyone were to pray for the good of Winnipeg, regardless of religious affiliation, the city would become a better place to live.

This got me thinking about what happens when people pray. A lot of discussion about prayer is focused on the dialogue between human and divine that takes place, but it would seem that this is only one part of prayer.

Praying is an action, you actually have to actively do something (I know, I know, some people like to talk about living a lifestyle of prayer; they always have the big guy on speed dial or some such nonsense. But in reality, these people are saying this to make up for their lack of praying, I know, because I used to be that guy). We know from developmental psychology that one of the major ways people learn how to do something is through repetition. Repetition of various scripts or narratives become very influential in how we think, and ultimately how we act. Take advertising for example, we are exposed to certain messages over and over in the hopes that we will heed the content of these messages and act out on them.

Prayer, on a very human level, functions this way. When we pray, we repeatedly come before the divine in a posture of humility, acclaiming the deity, contemplating the deity, thanking the deity, and bringing forward supplications to the deity (these are the A. C. T. S. of praying...). We are training ourselves to
a) acknowledge our own weakness, b) speak out our problems (which is basically what we spend a lot of money talking to counselors to do) and c) intercede for others.

An interesting thing happens when you pray, particularly when you pray corporately, or pray intercessory prayers for others. Barriers come down between people. The prayer group that I am a part of consists of everyone from freshmen to one of the deans at my university. Yet, when we come into the prayer-room, all office and division falls aside and we earnestly turn our attention to the Lord. We lay aside anything that regularly separates us in our united lowliness before God.

Daily we practice this, and after a while, I have noticed that the people of this group are much closer in other areas of daily life than they were before. There is a sense of camaraderie that exists between the members of this fellowship. We don't ever really pray specifically for one another, in fact we mostly say liturgical prayers that the Church has said for hundreds of years, but the act of praying together has had some miraculous effects.

Now, I think Chief Clunis was on to something when he asked the citizens of Winnipeg to pray for one another. After my own personal experience of praying in community, and praying for a community, I find it very difficult to act in a way that would be damaging towards the people of that community. What Clunis has hit upon, is the simple human ability to form positive habits, and he is asking everyone to form positive thought habits towards the city.

As a Christian, I would say that prayer actually does change things because God steps in and acts when we ask in Jesus name. I find it interesting however, that the very way in which we ask for miracles from God can actually cause miracles to happen.The goal of the Student Council that I sit on this year has been to foster community in my school. Here, in a very simple, tangible, yet miraculous way, we have a way to accomplish this goal. We now have an even greater sense of urgency to heed  the words of the apostle when he urges the Ephesians to pray in the spirit on all occasions.

Pray on my friends.

Healer

Healing God.

You who heal the deaf, give sight to the blind and raise the dead,

We come to you requesting that your healing power be poured out on our loved ones. 

Heal their bodies, make them whole and healthy, that you may be glorified.

Amen.

Have you ever listened to evangelicals who are about to pray? They ask for prayer/praise items and inevitably it disintegrates into a list of all the people present, known, or heard of that are suffering from physical malady or illness. Prayers for healing definitely top the charts in most prayed prayers. Ironically, though these are the most prayed prayers, they are also the least expected to come true. We pray for healing fully expecting that God can heal, but fully expecting that he won't. Oh we have all sorts of ways of explaining why prayers remain unanswered, but they all ring with a rather hollow sound as we stare down death, evil and suffering, begging God to somehow intervene. The above prayer is the prayer I might pray in public, but the true cry of my heart goes a lot more like this:

Jesus,

You healed the lame, restored sight to the blind, and raised the dead. 

I come to you begging for the lives of my dear loved ones,

Knowing that you heal, yet fully expecting you not to.

I pray that despite my expectations, you would heal. 

Lord, surprise me, disappoint my expectation of you,

make your name mighty among your people!

I know what you can do, I am afraid of what you will do, 

But I know that in it all you are God.

Amen.

Praying for healing is the only occasion I question the validity of my belief. Luckily, right at the heart of the Christian message is Easter. Easter, the death of God, his passage under the earth, his glorious resurrection. Threaded throughout those darkest of days is the pain of unanswered prayer, but yet even there, these three remain. And so as Eliot wrote "I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope for hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love for love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith but the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting."

A Prayer of Thanksgiving

Heavenly Father;

sometimes we come before you and things aren't alright.

That's alright.

sometimes, i can't say thank-you for your goodness.

You are always good.

my prayers get stuck in my throat and come out in feeble groans and whispers.

You hear my voice.

i am alone and unwanted.

You have called me by name.

sickness and death are lurking.

You are called healer.

vanity of vanities, all is hopelessness.

We hope against hope.

numbly sitting in the pew, i am incapable of worship.

Trees clap their hands in praise.

guilty, oh so guilty.

Declared innocent.

Your mercies are never ending. We, your people, rage tirelessly against your holy name, yet time and time again you reiterate your promises to us. Not only did you come and die, but you also came and lived. In your life lies the promise of life for us all. The world can be a pretty dark place. A lot of stuff happens that I don't have an answer for, and that kills me, but it also killed you.  This Thanksgiving, I thank-you for your promise to me that when things aren't all right, that with you, it's alright. Thank-you so very much Jesus. Cheers!

Glory be to the Father, 

and to the Son, 

and to the Holy Spirit.

As it was in the Beginning,

is now,

and shall be forever.

Amen.

To Arrive?

We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time.

-Eliot

There is a Voice calling me somewhere. I'm exploring, finding, arriving, departing.

Not that I'm a seeker; for I have found a path to walk on, though the legitimacy of that path is oft called into question.

Faith; always difficult to come to terms with - I envy and mistrust those who find it an easy task.

"Start with Scripture", go "Back to the Bible", "dig into the Word". And after that's all done, I find that I'm reading yet another new story.

That's the thing isn't it? To arrive is a contradiction, in arriving, one finds an alien familiarity.

Kind of like going home, familiar yet alien - just like Christ, so familiar, yet so strange.

Going home in Christ.

The Angel

She hurried down the dark path, hearing the train whistle getting closer and knew she didn't have much time. It needed to happen quickly if it was going to happen at all.

Inadequate, incompetent, stupid, useless; the barrage of self-loathing built up to a feverish frenzy as she looked desperately for escape. That day had been the tipping point; her boss had humiliated her before her co-workers yet again, practically shitting on her best efforts while being sure to point out his expertise in how her job was to be done. The worst part was, she knew that her best wasn't actually that good, her boss was indeed justified in his criticisms, though courtesy would suggest a gentler touch.

In the midst of her self-debasement the young woman noticed a slender form approaching her, coming up the path. She couldn't really make out who it was, but putting on her 'friendly face' greeted the stranger with a, "Hello, how are you?" Expecting the standard greeting of, "Good, how are you?" in return, she was shocked to find a listening ear. The stranger comforted the young woman, not giving answers, but instead, affirming that she had worth and was loved.

The two talked for hours, or rather, she talked while the other listened. Eventually, the young woman began to feel tired, her need for sleep becoming a stronger voice than the nightmarish demons that plagued her nocturnal hours. As the two said their goodbyes before the young woman turned back to her apartment and her warm bed, she could swear she heard the words, "I have called you by name, you are mine."

As she walked back, gazing up into the star strewn skies, she pondered that phrase, and her burdened heart seemed lighter and lighter. Upon reaching her apartment, she suddenly fell to her knees and praised God in a sudden exclamatory burst, thanking him for sending his messenger to save her.

Tears

Tears of joy, tears of grief, of frustration and relief.

A commonly correct response,

When things go well,

When things go ill;

I cry despite the taunts.

"Mourn with those who mourn."

This common burden has been borne

By all who live this fragile life,

Who've lost their mom, sister, or wife.

"Jesus wept,"

A pleasant verse except,

Weakness displayed by our King

Is difficult in its remembering.

God's grace remains,

As should be plain;

That soothing peace,

Dulling the pain.

So in the sadness, all hope's not lost

Christ's love's for you,

Forget the cost.

Listening

I play music by ear. Long ago I was able to read some music, but that skill quickly faded and now I'm almost completely dependent on my ears to help me along the right way. Because I have developed this skill, I can quickly pick out wrong notes and seek to fix them almost instantly - unfortunately when listening to someone else, an easy fix isn't always possible. This past weekend I played a show with my band and I could barely hear myself; I found out afterwards that it was partly because the monitor mix was messed up, but it was very difficult for me to play because the sense I relied so heavily on, had failed me.

I can listen very acutely while I make music and so am able to make judgements that benefit the overall performance. Yet I am a terrible listener, I always have been really. Originally it was because I assumed that I was right, then it became a habit. When I realized I wasn't always right, I found it easy to discredit the people who were "probably wrong", even if I was wrong too.

I don't even listen to God all that often. I move ahead, mocking those who sit and wait on the word of the Lord as being idolatrous and idle. Oh, every now and then I would pause and make sure I had the "All's clear" but mostly it's been my show. With very little regard for anyone else, friends, family or God, I have arrogantly made my way. Justified in my pride by the "knowledge" that I was right, or superior, or...

I try to listen, or at least I think I do - but I have so much to say and if I don't say it, somebody might miss out on some important truth? Right?

This summer I spent a lot of time by myself, listening to the radio mostly. I really listened, giving the people on air the benefit of the doubt, taking time to think through their position, not cutting them off with my own interjections; because really, that would have been futile. For some reason I can't listen to people though. Although this has been getting ever so slightly better.

Perhaps I learned not to listen because I realized I didn't want to hear what people were saying. Things like, "you've hurt me" or "you're being petty" or (worst of all!) "you're wrong". In the arrogance of youth  I didn't want to accept any consequences, but yet there are always consequences, to both good actions and bad.

I can't really change anything that I've done, and honestly, I'm not sure if I would want to. Sure I regret certain things, or at least how I reacted, but they needed to happen. At least my life has made me realize I need to listen. As a musician, I really should have known that.

So this year, maybe I'll listen more. I'd like to promise that I will, but promises that I can't keep aren't the best promises to make. I can talk less. Maybe that's it, talking less, and in the silence, being forced to listen more.

I've done much talking lately about learning the language of a community. I've now spent two years speaking the language of a community that I did not bother listening to first in order to learn it properly. Maybe, in these last months, I can pause from speaking to listen, and in listening, learn how to speak.

"Let us hear what the Spirit is saying to the Church..."

Sagebrush Philosophy

My great-grandfather was an amazing man. He was a pioneer, inventor and poet. When Canada had a competition to create our national anthem, he submitted a song entitled, "Canada, my Canada". This song actually won the competition, but because of the remote location in which he lived, my grandfather never found out soon enough to claim the prize and so "O Canada" was chosen instead. My mom recently gave me a book of my grandfather's poetry called Sagebrush Philosophy and I have been enjoying it immensely, here is one poem that I'd like to share with you.

When Comes the End of Wars?

When man to man shall brothers be
And all the world from bondage free,
No starving poor midst luxury,
Then comes the end of wars.

When Total War has made men see
The Light so they may well agree
That nations must united be
To put an end to wars;

When all the world has seen the fate
Of selfish crimes as up to date, When all unite to guard each state
Then comes the end of wars.

"It can't be done," we hear some say,
For there are those who think and pray
That all the world must run their way
Whate'er the cost of wars.

In eighteen-hundred-sixty-one
The same old cry, "It can't be done,"
  'Twas fought by every mother's son -
A bitter civil war.

In the land of the free and the home of the brave
The South declared the North were knaves
To order freedom of their slaves;
They claimed a righteous war.

They'd bought their human slaves with gold
As chattels by the law to hold,
  To work till they were dead and cold.
They asked God's help at war.

Their slaves showed loyalty complete,
They meekly bathed their master's feet
So they might have corn bread to eat,
  Why, then, a cause for war?

'Twas Honest Abe who then did say
That some must learn the hard, hard way,
That justice will at last hold sway
Whate'er the cost of war.

The slaves were freed; the battle done;
The North and South have since been one;
And one they'll be till Kingdom Come -
A union bought with war.

Roosevelt and Churchill out at sea
In that great charter did agree
That "Mankind must alike be free;
This war must end all wars.

"Freedom from want where all may share
God's wealth of land, of sea and air;
Of independence everywhere
When Justice outlaws wars."

When Armageddon tales are told
Of statesmen and of warriors bold
Who fought for freedom, not for gold,
And won the last great war;

When Total War these words explain
"Ye humans must be born again,"
So peace on earth may ever reign,
That war will end all wars.

- Victor W. Heydlauff

With Fear and Trembling

It is said, "Work out your salvation with fear and trembling". I come before you and openly admit that I am afraid.

I look to this upcoming year and realize that I can't do it. I don't want to do it. I don't want to go back to school. I don't want to face all of my responsibilities. I can't face my friends yet. I'm not ready for my studies. I don't have the strength, the energy, the faith, the money.

But of course I can't. I'm not supposed to. To think I've spent an entire year expounding on Missio Dei to once again forget that it is God's mission and not my own. I truly cannot make it through this year. Knowing that ahead of time may prove to be my one chance at survival. If I can do something on my own, thank-you God (but please don't interfere).

The stress is back; bringing with it the heartburn, the fatigue, the lack of sleep, the depression, the anxiety, the quiet desperation. Why? In place of Faith - doubt, for Hope - Despair, and Love - naught but a twisted depiction. Fortunately, paradoxically, these three remain, despite my ignorance.

And so I shoulder my cross, noting as I do that it seems not to weigh as much as I thought it would upon its appearance. (Matt. 11:30)

Missions Trips

Sooo... As I prepare to go back to school to my job as Missions Rep I suddenly have this video pop up on my screen. And yes, I am planning on leading a group of students to the DR on a missions trip over spring break. I could try to rationalize my actions or simply offer up a Kyrie Eleison.

In the words of Jesus (?) "There's that, and there's that"

Psalm 32 - Confession and Call

"Blessed is the one whose transgressions are forgiven, whose sins are covered" (Psalm 32:1)

So says the psalmist, small comfort to the one wallowing in sin. The poetry speaks for itself, damned is the unforgiven; woe to the naked sinner!

Augustine Confession rings true, "Now behold, let my heart tell You what it sought there: that I should be gratuitously evil, not being tempted with anything but evil itself. It was foul, and I loved it." Like a pig in a sty, willingly rolling in filth for the immediate self-pleasure such activities bring.

Desperately, rabidly, I repeat the litany, "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner..." but the mumbling whispers fail to reach up even to my own ears, never mind the ears of some enthroned deity. Like the pilgrim in Bunyan's book, I crawl burdened towards the cross, unlike him I refuse to leave that burden there, dreading the thought of revealing myself to walk upright into some foreign kingdom.

Satan's claim is sure, there is no escape from that, his chains are forged in the fires of my own sin. But, as I struggle to avoid that hideous cross, the One upon it slowly fixes me in his gaze, "I have called you by name, you are Mine."

I am my own, I am free, I am lord. Yet even in my blinded stupor I can see the hollowness of those claims as chain after chain raps around me, binding me to a terrible master, bonds that are of my own making.

Why would he want me, that one on the cross, and what authority has he to make such a claim? Unfortunately the way he spoke leaves no room to doubt his authority.

It makes no sense, what good am I? I am useless - bound as I am hand and foot - incapable of anything good or productive. I scream up at him, "Leave me alone, you don't want me, nobody does." The self-loathing that has long been my comfort and goad rises up; my simultaneous shield and weapon.

"Your sins are forgiven", says he.
"You know I'll do it again", I retort.
"Your sins are forgiven."

That's it. Silence, nothing happens, nothing changes. I continue on, clutching the chains that suddenly feel loose upon my body. Weary and burdened I continue on with that inescapably harsh judgement ringing in my ears, "Your sins are forgiven".

On I go loving my sin, while paradoxically begging for release, and every now and then, my litany of "....have mercy on me a sinner..." is subtly interrupted by a voice saying, "Your sins are forgiven".

On Prayer

The prayer of the bone on the beach, the unprayable

Prayer at the calamitous annunciation? 

- Eliot

In the gospel of Mark we are confronted with a difficult story. On the night Jesus is to be betrayed he goes out to the Garden of Gethsemane to pray. This scene paints the extraordinary difficulty involved in praying. In desperation, Christ calls out to God - no response. Three times he goes up to pray, and the ominous silence only deepens.

This is prayer. The struggle. The cry of, "Kyrie Eleison!" The desperation. The return to the familiar litany, "not my will but thine be done".

I would say that I cannot pray. I fumble for words and try desperately to veer around christianese cliches; yet despite all of my attempts at eloquence, I hear the words bouncing back off the wall, reaching no ears other than my own. In trying to pray the unprayable, I am left in an uncomfortable holy silence - as silent as the grave. My words fall dead to the floor, and in the silent, devastating aftermath, I hear the voices of the saints rise up from the ages. Adding my voice to theirs I cry out - or perhaps more accurately - pathetically whisper,
             "Our father, who art in heaven..."

Chief Among Sinners

After reading Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s Life Together I am struck by the simple observation that he makes, that I am the worst of sinners. This is not some attempt at self-deprecation, self-pity, or a cry for attention; it is the simple realization that I am totally and wholly sinful. There is no aspect of my life that is untouched by the filth of sin; the fruit in my life leaves a tell-tale aftertaste of rot and decay.

I have identified three sins in my life that are at the root of all others, lust, rage, and pride. My desires and appetites undergird many of my social actions; arguably everything I do is calculated to influence public opinion in my favour, to satisfy my appetites and give me pleasure. When my carefully crafted schemes go awry, instant rage flashes just below the surface, I cannot tolerate any contradiction of my self-proclaimed deity. The idol of self that I have set up is the result of pride, that pride that is so common to humanity, that original sin of Adam, and the cause of Lucifer’s fall.

So I am left with this paradox – I do good things, yet all of my motives are utterly sinful, even when they are not, when I realize that they are not, I am filled with pride at my own self-righteousness and fall once more into sin. So then, is anything I do really good? Well of course - prayer is good, study of the Scriptures is to be commended, service is honourable, the list goes on; these are good deeds.

I have been told that Luther once said, “When you sin, sin boldly” and I have oft wondered what the heck he meant by that, but now I think I begin to see clearly. My life is full of (for the sake of this discussion) good deeds with evil motives. Does the motive corrupt the deed? Perhaps. Does the deed have a need to be done? Indubitably. I cannot leave good deeds undone whilst I wait for my life to be transformed into perfection. Such heroes of the faith as Paul, Augustine, Calvin, and Mother Theresa struggled with sin their entire lives, yet through their sin, did good deeds as praise to God. I am forced then to continue in good deeds, acknowledging my wickedness, and so, knowingly sinning.

I am totally depraved, but in that, grace is then increased, the deeds become something because of God's grace in my life. I have been declared justified, though I may sin in the execution of good deeds, I may do so boldly, knowing that the penalty has been paid in Christ crucified. Through the grace of Jesus Christ my deeds are made pure, scrubbed free of the evil intent that I am helpless to avoid.

Knowing myself as the sinner I am, humbles me to know that every good and perfect thing comes from Christ. The Missio Dei is truly God’s mission, I am that unworthy vessel that has been sanctified in the blood of my Saviour, and it is only by his grace that any fruit will grow through my actions. Though I am thoroughly horrified with the extent of my depravity, I know that in Christ, I am a new creation, I die with him, but only in the knowledge and confession of my utter sinfulness.

The Christian Duty to Beauty; a Critique of the Sweat-pant Aesthetic

So I have been extremely negligent in posting anything, partly due to the fact that I just finished an entire philosophy class in 8 days. My brain has been fried for a couple weeks and I'm just getting back into some reading, in the meantime, here is one of the papers I wrote for this class on Aesthetics, for any Provers out there, this is my answer to the debate about sweat-pants.

Introduction

            The true, the good, and the beautiful, these are the holy triumvirate of descriptors that thinkers have applied to the Divine through the ages. As St. John’s gospel so poetically puts it, the Logos – the truth or order of the cosmos – became flesh and dwelt among us, making disciples and commissioning those disciples to make disciples of all nations. Philosophers have long connected the ideas of Truth and Beauty, and it is part of the Christian confession to say that these things have their ultimate reality and grounding in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ.

            It is the intent of this paper to tease out the implications of being a disciple of – as the song writer puts it – the Beautiful One.[1] My understanding of discipleship is based on the ancient Jewish custom of discipleship in which a young man, after completing his schooling would beg a rabbi to accept him as his disciple. From that moment on the disciple lived, breathed, and slept, the teachings of his rabbi. The goal was, that at some point, the disciple would become so much akin to the rabbi that the rabbi would release the disciple from service because there was no more that he could teach, and the disciple would in turn, become a rabbi in his own right. Now a Christian confesses that he or she has been chosen by the rabbi, and there will be no release on the rabbi’s part; but the salient feature of discipleship remains, the literal transformation of the disciple to be remade in the rabbi’s image. In the case of the Christian, that means a remaking in the image of the Beautiful. I will argue that the Christian duty to beauty continues to provide a strong imperative to subvert the current prevalent trend of the “Sweat-pant Aesthetic” that finds its roots in pragmatism. During Christendom, the Church led the way in philosophy, literature, science, music, visual arts, and architecture. Now, Christianity is known for second rate art and a general lack of ‘high culture’. It is my assertion that as disciples of the Beautiful One, it is our duty to create and facilitate all forms of beauty.

Beauty, the Christian Duty

            Arguably the central tenant of Christianity is love. We are to love others, love ourselves and love God. Love is “the more excellent way” (1 Cor. 12:31). Now, given that Love is central to the Christian faith, we can turn to the teachings of (who else?) Plato in his work, the Symposium, for a look at the connection between love and beauty.[2] Plato, through the voice of Diotima, argues that we ought to, and often naturally do love particular beautiful forms. The nature of love is such that if we love a particular beautiful form, we should love all beautiful forms and so on, love in the universal increases through the experience of loving the particular.

            So Christians, the lives of whom are to be characterized by love, should naturally love beauty. We are also followers of the one in whom all things have their grounding; that is Christ, the source of all beauty. Traditionally, the church understood the necessary connection to the love of beauty and Christian art and architecture reflected that. Cathedrals, those beautiful sacrifices of praise, were built for the sake of the transcendent beauty of these places that forces an awareness of the divine; the experience of such places elevates the human experience from the mire of life to a fleeting image of heaven. Scripture itself exhorts the faithful believer to appreciate the Beautiful. Philippians 4:8(NRSV)  says “Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honourable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.” There was a time when the Church valued Beauty, maybe even to the point of idolatry, unfortunately the response was not a re-evaluation, but an adoption of the secular ugliness I have termed, the ‘Sweat-pant Aesthetic”.

The Sweat-pant Aesthetic

            By this time, one may be wondering what this ‘Sweat-pant Aesthetic’ is that I keep making constant reference to. Essentially it is the same function-first pragmatism that Roger Scruton rails against in his film, Why Beauty Matters.[3] The issue was first brought to my attention in the form of an on-going debate amongst Providence students regarding the social obligation of adhering to a certain standard of dress. The main point of contention in this debate is the wearing of sweat-pants in public situations. Now, it is not my project to resolve this debate, but, following the worldview evaluation model as set forth by Pearcey, I wish to expose the pragmatic attitude towards beauty inherent in this debate, that is anathema to the Christian calling.[4]

The Modern Art movement of the past century has given rise to a rather peculiar trend in the art world. Art has become pragmatically true, (in the Rortyan sense, ‘what your peers will let you get away with’) and the artist has been reduced to a marketer, convincing in brazen tones that a can of shit or a broken urinal is in fact art. The artist, rather than trying to create art for the sake of beauty, points to the ugliness of reality and declares, “This is art!” This trend allows the consumer to feel “more at ease within the world they are given.”[5] No longer does art need to transcend the everyday, to make the world more beautiful, the shock value of the advertisement is all that is left.

In other areas of aesthetic consideration, such as architecture, interior design, landscaping, and fashion, it is functionality that trumps beauty.[6]“Our consumer society puts usefulness first and beauty is no better than a side-effect.”[7] Consumerism thrives on this functional aesthetic where concepts of real beauty are meaningless. “If people decide what is beautiful based only on opinion, then fashion can be changed quickly. Quick changes in fashion lead to spending. . . and spending leads to profit.”[8]

Pragmatism has been expressed as the salient feature of American philosophical thought.[9] It is the double edged sword that has made America great and also brought about the aesthetic decay that is now so prevalent. Beauty has been replaced by the category of practicality, hence the “Sweat-pant Aesthetic”. The logic is, clothing is necessary, sweat-pants are comfortable, good enough! But is it good enough? Is functionality truly more important than fashionality? To this question we now turn.

A Critique of the ‘Sweat-pant Aesthetic’

“Put usefulness first and you lose it, put beauty first and what you do will be useful forever.”[10] This is the conclusion which Roger Scruton draws near the end of his documentary on Beauty. The logic is simple, if something is made solely for its function, be it a building or clothing or whatever, it will not be valued for long, and soon will be made so ugly that even its original functionality is removed. Put more simply, people will pay to upkeep a castle long after they have written off a concrete apartment block, designer suits will be taken care of longer than a pair of sports shorts. Functionality paired with beauty would seem to increase the longevity of an item’s functionality. So it is apparent from a purely economic standpoint, that attention to beauty is a worthy endeavour. But the economic value of beauty in no way implies a Christian duty to the preservation of this esteemed value.

The Christian duty to the Beautiful primarily begins with the imperative to love one another.

The flippant comment, ‘I don’t care how I look’ is not a mark of humility but a lack of love. Others are obliged to look at the person who doesn’t care, and thereby he or she is inflicting psychic pain on them. For love’s sake I will dress in a manner that signals my love and respect for those around me. My freedom to dress as I choose must always be conditioned by my love for others. Love is concerned for the other (not the self) in all matters related to personal appearance and lifestyle.[11]

The current devotion to pragmatism over beauty is the functional equivalent of saying, “I don’t care how I look”. It is the same “tongues-out” phenomena prevalent in modern art that Scruton is so contemptuous of. There is nothing loving in the artist whose creations are meant to shock, revolt, and disgust. This is being purposefully unloving, and thus profoundly anti-Christian.

The ugly cubic architecture of the 20^th century, and the function first style that promotes the wearing of sweat-pants as acceptable and commendable, is also profoundly unloving in the way in which it conceives of the other. In the first case of architecture, human life is degraded to a column on a spread sheet that has a certain cost attached to it – basic need = shelter, therefore this squalid apartment block should do the trick. The second case – that of fashion – proclaims that the comfort and preference of the individual trumps the duty to the ‘other’ which is essential in the living out of community.

Now the Church, especially in the Evangelical tradition has largely adopted the pragmatism that has banished any aesthetic consideration from the popular conscience. Evangelicals are so concerned with the salvation of souls from damnation that they often adopt a “whatever works” policy to fill their churches and empty hell. This approach to evangelism is profoundly unloving as it reduces the significance of human life to mere numbers of souls saved from destruction.

The Reformation rightly spoke out against the excesses that existed in the Church, in the Middle Ages, Beauty had become an idol, so some choices that the Protestant movement made can be forgiven for their reactionary nature. But a shift came with the advent of the “tent-meeting” style evangelism of the 19^th and early 20^th centuries where the thought surfaced that the message of salvation was the sum total of discipleship and establishing the kingdom of God.[12] This led to the construction of churches that could serve as a platform to proclaim the gospel by whatever means necessary. My own church’s sanctuary for years could also be used as a gymnasium and even when a proper sanctuary was built, it was purposely built to be a multi-functional facility, stained-glass windows were sacrificed in the name of darkness for the projector. A quick trip to a few evangelical churches will demonstrate the type of aesthetic compromise of which I speak.

The cathedrals of Europe on the other hand – built in another age, one that still valued beauty and saw the creation of beautiful things as fitting praise to God – are breath-taking. While the church building I was raised up in has almost outlived its usefulness, cathedrals that were built a thousand years ago are still functioning as places of worship in all of their beauty and splendour. While across Europe churches are struggling to stay open, the cathedral service attendance is up 20% in recent years.[13] People seem to still be drawn to the transcendent beauty of these services. This natural tendency that is betrayed by sociological data should provide a hint, that while the official rule is pragmatism, the human soul intuitively knows that truth resides somewhere in the realm of the Beautiful.

Conclusion

            Christians, as disciples of the Beautiful One, and guided in their lifestyle by an ethic of love should be champions of the cause of Beauty. A life lived in love should transform the way in which we see other people so that we act in a more beautiful way towards them. Greater intentionality will necessary be taken in the choices of wardrobe, architecture, and the creation of art. Under the ethic of Love, no more will the desires of the self reign supreme, and the need to shock and outrage will be removed from the arts. Even the Evangelical church should be able to see that, per our discussions on beauty prolonging function, attention to beauty in construction will prolong function and, from a purely economic standpoint, save more souls. The Christian has a profound duty to the creation and preservation of all things beautiful. For in loving these things, we learn to love more fully, and thus obey the mandate to love that Christ lays out as the sum of the Law and Prophets.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Bailey, Kenneth E. Paul Through Mediterranean Eyes: Cultural Studies in 1 Corinthians. Downers Grove, Ill: IVP Academic, 2011.

McReynolds, Philip. American Philosopher the Film Part 1. http://vimeo.com/21268165.

Pearcey, Nancy.  Saving Leonardo: A Call to Resist the Secular Assault on Mind, Morals, and Meaning.  Nashville: B&H Publishing Group, 2010.

Perry, Tim. “CANTERBURY TRIALS #4 EVANGELISM AND ENCHANTMENT”. June, 2012. http://texasflood.ca/canterbury-trials-4-evangelism-enchantment.

Plato. Symposium. In Aesthetics: A Comprehensive Anthology, edited by Steven Cahn and Aaron Meskin. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 2008. Originally published in Alexander  Nehamas and Paul Woodruff, trans., Symposium (Indianapolis, IN, and Cambridge, MA: Hackett Publishing, 1989).

Reynolds, John Mark.  "What My Nana Taught Me (Part I): Beauty Matters!"  The Scriptorium, 2008.  http://www.scriptoriumdaily.com/2008/01/18/what-my-nana-taught-me-beauty-matters/.

Scruton, Roger.  Why Beauty Matters.  London: BBC, 2009.  59 minutes.  YouTube.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RiajXQUppYY.

---

[1] Tim Hughes, “Beautiful One”

[2] Plato, Symposium In Aesthetics: A Comprehensive Anthology, edited by Steven Cahn and Aaron Meskin, Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 2008. Originally published in Alexander  Nehamas and Paul Woodruff, trans., Symposium (Indianapolis, IN, and Cambridge, MA: Hackett Publishing, 1989).

[3] Scruton, Roger.  Why Beauty Matters.  London: BBC, 2009.  59 minutes.  YouTube.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RiajXQUppYY

[4] Nancy Pearcey, Saving Leonardo: A Call to Resist the Secular Assault on Mind, Morals, and Meaning,  (Nashville: B&H Publishing Group, 2010).

[5] Michael Craig-Martin in Roger Scruton, Why Beauty Matters, London: BBC, 2009, 59 minutes,  YouTube,  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RiajXQUppYY.

[6] Horrifyingly this trend to function over beauty is most present in the Church, i.e. Providence Chapel, Springs Church, Southland, etc. buildings that value function first, while beauty is maybe an afterthought.

[7] Scruton, Why Beauty Matters.

[8] John Mark Reynolds, "What My Nana Taught Me (Part I): Beauty Matters!"  The Scriptorium, 2008, http://www.scriptoriumdaily.com/2008/01/18/what-my-nana-taught-me-beauty-matters/, 10.

[9] Philip McReynolds,  American Philosopher the Film Part 1, http://vimeo.com/21268165.

[10]Scruton.

[11] Kenneth E. Bailey, Paul Through Mediterranean Eyes: Cultural Studies in 1 Corinthians, (Downers Grove, Ill: IVP Academic, 2011), 370.

[12] I recognize that these are very broad generalizations of large parts of complex Church history, but it is necessary to paint with broad strokes in order to arrive at the current state of today’s Church.

[13] Tim Perry, “CANTERBURY TRIALS #4 EVANGELISM AND ENCHANTMENT”, June, 2012, http://texasflood.ca/canterbury-trials-4-evangelism-enchantment.

Some thoughts on Isaiah 56

And yet is that worse? To look suffering in the eyes and then turn away? I saw and yet I did nothing - what does that show to them?- Mallory Moench

Thus says the Lord: “Maintain justice, and do what is right, for soon my salvation will come and my deliverance be revealed

            Thus says the Christian: “God blesses me because I’m right. I’d better rape and pillage the earth as fast I can, for Jesus is coming back soon!”

            Isaiah clearly demands that followers of God have an outward focus. Today, with our wide array of mass media, it is almost impossible to not see the massive injustices that are being committed around the world. Yet we sit in our churches staring into mirrors, congratulating ourselves on how holy and righteous we are. We know that we will be going to heaven, so we stare into the sky, waiting for the Parousia. God in his mercy sees us failing to do justice, even though it is in our faces constantly, so he brings opportunities right to our doorways, that even we filthy sinners should not be able to miss.

“My house shall be a house of prayer,” quotes the pastor as he bars the door to the church. Outside, the homosexual, the refugee and the recovering alcoholic look at each other and say, “The Lord has surely separated us from his people.” The pastor peers out the window of his office at those whom he has just banished and congratulates himself on maintaining the purity of the Church; he did not profane the Lord’s Sabbath. In reality, he is blind and without knowledge. He pours himself a mug of ‘fair-trade’ coffee and thinks that “tomorrow will be like today, great beyond measure.”

“My salvation is coming soon…” It is interesting how ‘happy’ we mortals can make ourselves, even when we fail to maintain justice and do what is right.

Though some with certainty insist no certainty exists...

All things come to an end, or so they say. This school year draws to a close and I find myself doubting the veracity of that cliched statement. All things do end in one sense, but yet there is an eternal nature to the particular temporal events that make up our lives. Just as notes in a song only hold meaning in reference to their relationship with the other notes of the piece, so to do the events of today only hold meaning in reference to all that has come before, and all that is waiting just around the corner. 

As an avid reader, life often feels like a book to me. There is closure to sections of my life just as there is closure when I flip a page or come to the end of a chapter. However the next page or chapter is meaningless without the content that preceded it. 

It seems that much of the advice that is given or received in this life comes in the form of ideals. Ideal ways of life are held up in contrast to the reality of our lived experience and we are encouraged to repent of our old ways, forsaking all that came before and embracing this new ideal. The Church in particular holds out this type of advice, preaching repentance from sins to embrace a new life in Christ. This is in accordance with Scriptures, however there is not a whole lot of instruction as to how that is supposed to look. Attempt after attempt is made at some form of repentance which often merely becomes an attempt at stripping a previous identity and trying to manage within a brand new, directionless identity. 

The idea that we can completely leave behind all that has come before and have a fresh start is the failed project of modernism. Time after time in Scripture, God takes people from where they are at and miraculously takes them to a new place, working with who they are. He loves people from starting point to wherever they end up, and I would even argue that he allows/puts people through the events of their lives to form very specific servants for him. In light of God's eternal love, things don't come to an end, I am loved before, during and after. Life leaves its marks, for better or for worse and they don't go away, but perhaps that isn't such a bad thing. As Kurt Driedger sings, "I wouldn't have it any other way". 

Isaiah 62, A Story of Redemption.

She wakes up to the piercing ray of sunshine coming through the almost closed blinds. As she rolls away from the snoring man on her right she knocks over the empty bottle of absinthe. It hits the rubbish strewn floor with a loud clunk, sending pain through her alcohol drenched brain. Her name is Azubah,[1] and this is a typical morning for her. She quickly puts on her clothes, sneaks out of the room and hurries to catch a taxi home.

            She gets home and heads to the bathroom to rinse the filth of the previous night’s debauchery from her, before getting in the shower she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror and sobs in despair at the sight before her eyes. Sunken eyes, matted hair, needle tracks up her arms, bruises across her torso where so many have laid hands on her. The demons in her mind scream their hate-filled lies at her and she takes a shot from a nearby whisky bottle before pulling closed the shower curtain.

            The hot water washes over her but fails to warm the icy cold chill in her heart. Upon getting out she dresses and applies her makeup, bringing a semblance of life to her dead, vacant face. She was beautiful once, but years of poor nutrition, late nights, drunken orgies, and her long addiction to methamphetamine has left her a ruined husk of her former glory.

            It’s midday, Azubah has taken to the streets to try and outrun the demons, if only for a little while. She sees some guys in hoods passing around a bong just off the street in a back alley and suddenly she realizes that she owes them money. She tries to make it past without being seen but is recognized and the stoners give chase. She runs for her life, knowing that if they catch her, she will not survive the beating. The next door she comes across she darts inside, not even looking up to see what kind of building it is. As soon as she enters she realizes that she has entered a small inner-city church/soup kitchen. A young man comes over and asks her what’s wrong. As soon as she tells him, he locks the door, calls over a friend to act as sentinel and phones the cops. Azubah slowly loses consciousness from the strain as he is stroking her hair telling her it will be alright.

            Months later, after some intensive rehab and that initial, unconditional love shown to her by that strange, kind young man at the soup kitchen, Azubah returns. Azubah has been completely transformed, no more is there the zombie-like prostitute-drug-addict. In that persons place is an innocent young girl with a crown of beauty upon her head. No longer is she called Azubah, her friends (yes, she now has friends!) call her Hephzibah. She has found her peace in Christ, and as the bridegroom rejoices over his bride, so God rejoices over her!

            She has returned for one reason, through all the long months of pain and despair that led to her recovery, that young man had been faithful in writing and visiting her, and he had asked her to come by and see him when she was free. She walks in, he rushes over, drops to his knees and asks her to marry him. She says yes and he promises her that never again will she have to work as a sex slave to enjoy the pleasures of food and drink. That day Hephzibah earned a new name, Beulah. The young man says to her, “My God and I have sought you out, and you shall never be Forsaken again).

---

[1] Forsaken

You are loved!

The subject of this song begs to be loved, and my heart breaks for her. We all know someone like this, perhaps you are this person. That person who has been hurt time and again by the harsh realities of this wretched world. As I sit here, I just want to tell all who identify with this woman, that you are loved, this Easter season, rejoice in that wonderful truth!

Lost in the Crowd

Holy Week was a time for some pretty serious reflection on my part. As I meditated on the story of the Passion, I found myself more and more identifying with the crowds in Jerusalem. Often, in my church at least, we are subtly encouraged to identify with the disciples because of course, we're Christians, so it is only fitting that we should identify with such as Peter or Mary. This year however, I couldn't do that, my role in the story is one of anonymity, but yet, is every bit as important to the flow of the narrative.

The crowd (and by extension myself) serve two functions in the Passion narrative, providing blessing and condemnation.

On Palm Sunday I am there, singing praises of "Hosanna!" to the Messiah that has finally arrived. Finally a Saviour has arrived to make all of my problems disappear. The one the prophets spoke about long ago had finally arrived to fulfill all of my dreams. The resolution of all my life problems was at hand, God had not abandoned me, he was finally answering my prayers.

So I cheered and danced and laid offerings of praise at his feet, confident that now, I would get what I had long waited for.

Days went by, but nothing changed. Everything carried on as it had for hundreds of years. This Jesus was a fraud, he must be, a clever fraud - for he had used the words of the prophets to elicit a powerful response - but a fraud nonetheless. I began to be annoyed as the prayers that I had prayed for so long remained unanswered. In fact the only answer Jesus gave me at all was by entering our Temple and overturning things; who did this charlatan think he was?

When I heard the news, I felt disappointment, which was quickly replaced by vindictive rage. It turns out that this Jesus wasn't the Messiah after all, perhaps my prayers would yet be answered by the real Messiah. I rushed out into the street to join the growing mob of people that were rushing to see condemned, the man who had betrayed all of our hopes.

"CRUCIFY HIM!!" I screamed until I was hoarse, and with perverse pleasure, watched as Pilate handed that  god-forsaken traitor over to the will of the people (about time the Romans listened to us...). I jeered and mocked and spat on him as he walked by me. Laughing with cruel pleasure, I even tossed some debris on his ravaged back just to watch him wince, vindictively inflicting the pain his false promises had caused me, back onto him.

I was pushed along with the crowd out of the city up onto the mountain of Golgotha. I was drunk with hate, giddy with cruel thoughts of revenge. Grinning from ear to ear, my friends and I chortled as the soldiers forced him onto that cross and hoisted him high above the ground. I yelled in protest when I saw that those imbecile Roman guards had named him "King of the Jews", but was ignored. I would never accept him as my king, but not matter, he was only hours away from death.

I thought about leaving a few times, but I was too captivated by the sight of that bloody body hanging there. I determined to see this thing through to the end. Mid-afternoon, the sky darkened and from the lips of that beleaguered victim hanging on the cross rose a cry, "Eli, eli, lema sabachthani!" I thought to myself, "Why has God forsaken you? You forsook us!!" A while later he yelled, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they are doing!" This caught my attention a little bit, but I quickly shrugged it off, believing him to be playing up the part of Messiah, even to his death. Finally he sighed one last time saying loudly enough for all in attendance to hear, "It is finished."

What happened next, I can't explain. At the moment Jesus said these words, he died, and thunder and lightning shook the heavens while earthquakes shattered the land. I was thrown to my hands and knees, and above the din I heard the centurion cry, "Surely this man was the Son of God!" I looked upon that broken body, and I too came to that horrible realization. We had just crucified an innocent man, the innocent man, our one chance for redemption, and I had a hand in his death.

Suddenly, all of my prayers were shown to me for what they were, selfish wishes wrapped in the pious language of "thy will be done". Thinking that I could deceive God into having my will be done by cleverly requesting things as though they were His will.

There, at the foot of the cross, just as the saviour I had missed was broken, I was broken.

I went home that night knowing not what to do. I thought about trying to find Jesus' disciples, but rumour had it that they had all been scattered, or were in hiding after their rabbi was killed. Life went on, every day an agony, knowing that because of me, my one hope of a Messiah was gone. At Pentecost I was wandering the streets aimlessly when I heard a man powerfully proclaiming a message that at first seemed absurd, but then filled me with hope. Jesus, the man whom I had crucified, was somehow, miraculously alive. I jumped for joy and ran towards this man eager to know more...

"...and about three thousand were added to their number that day." Acts 2:41

A Lenten Psalm

Hollow.

Broken inside and beginning to slide.

Emptiness.

That fluttering gut that won’t calm down.

Pain, angst, rage and despair.

Betrayal.

Knowing my foundation was sand – as the waves of panic rush in, my eyes desperately scan the horizon – devoid of hope.

You were my god, but you were no God.

Faith, hope and love?

A mere childish fantasy!

But yet…

Wrapping me tight is some mysterious great love

            I fight against it;

            Refusing to believe that anyone could love… me.

I hold on –

Trying to grasp the infinite fragments of my sanity.

Lost.

Staring blankly through time and space; unmoved by all of creation’s splendour.

“Hosanna!”

With a loud cry, I behold the Messiah

His beautiful eyes warm with love… and hurt?

I turn away, knowing that somehow, I am the cause of that pain.

“Crucify Him”

The words rip my throat raw as my screams blend with those of the throng.

I gloat with malice as those terrible, loving eyes close in agony.

“It is finished”

That foul lover; broken, his ruined eyes devoid at last of that suffocating love.

No sleep.

I go to the tomb,

Where is he?

Collapsing to my knees I am confronted with those piercing, loving eyes.

He picks me up –

            And for the first time, my fury and rage depart.

I gaze back into those wonderfully warm eyes as he softly whispers…

“I… Love… You…”

The Living Word

We humans often ask a simple question of the events or subjects that confront us, "what does this mean?" Recently however, I have been challenged to ask of the world not, "what does this mean" but "what does this do/how does this function?" The idea to shift the question that I was asking originated from my theology prof on the question of tongues, but since then I have been exploring the implications of that question in art, and most recently, scripture reading.

So often we approach Scripture as though it were the object, and we, the subject acting upon it. This has led humanity down both the roads of fundamentalism and higher criticism. The driving force behind both of these movements was an inability to let Scripture act upon us; we had to tame the Scriptures, to understand them, to mine them for scientific knowledge. We treated Scripture as a dead text, something that pointed us towards God, but not a way in which we might actually encounter God.

The gospel of John refers to Jesus as being the Word, the Word become flesh in fact. The incarnation is that messy occasion where we are confronted by God and are forced to majorly deconstruct some of our ideas about the way the world is. An encounter with God shakes us in a way that leaves us forever changed. What would happen, if we read the Scriptures looking to actually encounter the living Word, not just learn about him? Try letting the text do something to you, allow it to transform you instead of obsessing over the insane question, "What does it all mean?" After a couple thousand years, we still don't really know, but we do know that Scripture does something to us, and that, I think, is something to cling to.

Your young men will see visions...

A young man sat daydreaming in the back-row of the chapel. In those days the word of the Lord was rare among men and not many had visions. Suddenly the young man's lazy afternoon thoughts were shattered by a startlingly vivid vision.

A voice said, "Son of man, look upon the world!"

And lo, I looked and rising up above the fields

of the earth was a great and terrible masculine

form, rising up on the edges of the horizon. He

had eyes like coal and a bloody scourge hung from 

his hand. He towered above the masses of screaming 

humanity that groveled at his feet. 

I beheld the name of this behemoth - he was Sin, and 

all are enslaved by him.

The young man awoke from his vision and cried out to the Lord.

"What shall be done?!?!" he cried.

The Lord said unto him "The one whom the Son of Man sets free shall be free indeed. I have set you free, go and do unto others likewise."

At that moment, the young man's mind was filled with a myriad of fleeting pictures and impressions; unlocking chains, pouring water, soothing the distraught, feeding the hungry, tending the sick... On and on it went, the young man being laid low under the intensity of the onslaught. Finally the young man bowed his head and, in a broken voice barely above a whisper prayed, "Your will be done..."

Who am I?

What my guy friends say: "You're a terrible person".
What my girl friends say: "You are a good friend/You're a jerk".

What their actions say: "I trust and count on you"

What my family says: "We love you and miss you"

What their actions say: "Oh, you're around?"

What God says: "I have called you by name, you are mine... I love you."

What his actions say - the same thing.


With all these voices telling me who I am, who do I believe? Or perhaps all of these voices speak some truth about who I am, perhaps I am all these things, maybe I'm none of them. A wise man once told me to "find my identity in Christ", yet, it is undeniable that at least part of our identity is shaped by the social context we are placed in. I don't even know where home is anymore, I have multiple communities telling me different (and sometimes conflicting) things about who I am. The only one who remains constant is the Lord. Perhaps the NT writers new what they were talking about in referring to Christ as the chief cornerstone. It really seems that he is the only constant source to be found.

This home we call the body...

Dissatisfaction.

Always looking, never finding.

An unresolved chord.

Waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting...

Screaming, smiling, crying, laughing.

Chin up, back straight

Big smile, silent tears, loud laugh.

Surrender, or maybe retreat?

Always tired, never asleep.

In the words of Bilbo, "thin, like too little butter spread over too much bread".

Offending yet offended.

Listening, but not hearing.

Speaking but not being heard.

Bored, yet desiring no entertainment.

Hungry, yet without appetite.

Loved by God.

What will ever be enough?