House of Mercy and Grace and Disgrace

NT; (c) Knightshayes Court; Supplied by The Public Catalogue Foundation

On another website, my blog post “Jesus- An Accessory to Murder?” was reprinted. I received a simple, maybe obvious, and yet profoundly important comment. In support of my message, Tobysgirl wrote:

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“As someone said, it’s like Jesus was born so he could be crucified, and his life means nothing at all.”

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Being that yesterday was the kick off to the Church calendar, these words are all the more significant.

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Often, maybe too often, I have noticed copious differences between the symbolic body of Christ (the Church) and the actual life of the crucified and resurrected God. It’s not anything novel, disgruntled followers have held up Ghandi’s “your Christians are so unlike your Christ” quote for some time now. But that doesn’t make it any less true or relevant. Sometimes I fear faithful skeptics will stop holding the Church’s feet to the fire in the name of changing trends.

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Some leaders of the faith have said this is much ado about nothing. They have said that too much spiritual investment is placed in His historical life, his actions and his strange statements containing curious caveats, after all, the gospels were written by authors with their own sets of biases and baggage. The Bible is all equally important (an idea I have always questioned). And the point is mainly the crucifixion and the resurrection. The bookmarks of the Christian calendar. The rest is more or less commentary…

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And with that, these leaders reduce those profound discrepancies to speculative intellectual gymnastics. Just twists and turns of a liberal agenda trying to move the Messiah to the wrong side of the aisle.

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I give you the story of Bethesda.

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In a corner of the town of Jerusalem, invalids and unworthy suds, washed themselves in what was called the “Pool of Bethesda”. It was a place with supposed healing powers. The name Bethesda itself meant, “House of Mercy” or “House of Grace”, AND it was also been translated to mean “House of disgrace”. A twin title that is fitting for what happened there.

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So a disabled man waits by the Pool of Bethesda, desperately trying to get in. In fact, he had been lying there for 38 years. The account in John goes:

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Soon another Feast came around and Jesus was back in Jerusalem. Near the Sheep Gate in Jerusalem there was a pool, in Hebrew called Bethesda, with five alcoves.

Hundreds of sick people—blind, crippled, paralyzed—were in these alcoves. One man had been an invalid there for thirty-eight years. When Jesus saw him stretched out by the pool and knew how long he had been there, he said, “Do you want to get well?”

7 The sick man said, “Sir, when the water is stirred, I don’t have anybody to put me in the pool. By the time I get there, somebody else is already in.”

8-9 Jesus said, “Get up, take your bedroll, start walking.” The man was healed on the spot. He picked up his bedroll and walked off.

9-10 That day happened to be the Sabbath. The Jews stopped the healed man and said, “It’s the Sabbath. You can’t carry your bedroll around. It’s against the rules.”

11 But he told them, “The man who made me well told me to. He said, ‘Take your bedroll and start walking.’” (John 5:1-11).

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Unsurprisingly, this man did not recognize the ultimate healer before him. He had spent his whole life trying to make it into that pool. He was trying to fix the brokenness of body and spirit. He spent his years in a house of religion waiting for a rescue that would never show up.

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Everyone told him to sit tight. Everyone told him that the pool ahead held all the answers. Patience, dear paralytic. This water will wash your problems away. It is of the divine, it is not to be challenged. Grow your faith a bit. Isn’t your healing worth 38 years of your life?

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Then comes along a man who rips apart every curtain in the paralytics reality. The hope he had held for so long was nothing more than a myth. It was real for him, sure, but it wasn’t true. Too often we mistake that which we hold to be real to be true. The two aren’t the same. Some wells we see are nothing more than mirages.

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A message that seems to get lost in the lectures of stories like this is the moral relativism of Jesus. I am not saying Jesus is a flake, nor do I intend the adjective “moral relativism” to be used, as it normally is, negatively. In three gospels Jesus breaks the Sabbath law in substitution for another. That law was important once, but not today. Not now. Not while this man lays in agony at my feet. Again, the divine Son of God shows us what it really means to have humanity.

Brennan Manning writes:

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“Our hearts of stone become hearts of flesh when we learns where the outcast weeps.”

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Our arrogance is the stone, Christ is the flesh. Spiritual purposes of the law cannot be fulfilled if it goes against the heart residing in Christ. They had obviously misunderstood something, and their misunderstanding had consequences to Kingdom Come. To the message of the Messiah. To the very name of the pool as the “house of grace”.

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David Dark, in one the must-read books for followers of this generation, The Sacredness of Questioning Everything, writes:

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“Churches, government, marketing schemes and other unsound structures are always with us. Reforming them, de-constructing them, or renouncing their stratagems altogether will often be an ethical imperative. But to begin to get out from under a bad con isn’t to escape a place where everything is permitted, some religious-free zone void of awe or wonder or a sense of the holy. We break with sacred cows all the time, but when we do, it’s generally because we’ve stumbled on something that strikes us as more sacred than what we once feverishly sought or bowed down to. This, too, is religion- ever inescapable, always worth questioning, and, perhaps, reaffirming. What do we hold sacred? Is it worthy? Have we begun to ask the right questions?

Siddhartha Gautama, the Buddha decided there was something more sacred than material wealth and privilege that surrounded him in his formative years. Jesus of Nazareth taught that healing people on the Sabbath was more important than keeping the Sabbath rules. Muhammad asserted that the hypermaterialism of the ostensibly religious merchants of Mecca was displeasing to the one true God. Martin Luther King Jr. persuaded thousands that their worship of racial privilege was unjust, evil, and an abomination in the sight of God. Sacred cows are called into question. Community standards are confronted. Religion happens. You’ve got to lose your life to find it. You have to learn how to die.” (The Sacredness of Questioning Everything, pg. 33, Bold emphasis mine).

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We can never mistake the will of the majority with the will of God. That much I know to be true. If anything, the story Christ reaffirms this, over and over and over again. The majority crucified Christ. He bucked both religious and cultural opinions. He was an outlier. Weird. Cast aside as a crazy man, or worse, a con man.

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When I hear speeches from the Pope or Conservative evangelicals, I cannot fall prey to the fallacy that somehow they know Jesus better than I OR that I know him better than they do.

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As they cannot stop questioning me, I cannot stop questioning them. We loosen and we bind one another from what we think we know in order to find the deeper truths that neither of us can fully claim. Norms change, people change, opinions shift. Strangely, we can be largely separated on so many things, yet intimately tied by our belief in a savior. Maybe that’s the beauty of the body.

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Jesus turned the religious structures upside down. It makes sense that the pharisees didn’t see God in flesh while he was tearing apart their reality stitch by stitch. He told them that they got the Sabbath wrong. He told the paralytic that he was living for a lie.

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He told everyone that Satan is the Accuser, not God.

He told them that love is the answer, not legalism.

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Systematically, he removed every burden that bore down on the religiously devote. He overcame the love of power with the power of love. Freedom in the truest sense of the Word. Our God doesn’t clasp handcuffs on fresh converts. He releases them from every lie of this world. From shame, hunger, sickness and oppression. He bestows love, grace, hope and freedom. Sweet freedom. The Sabbath reformation strikes me so deeply because it’s the transformation of a relationship based on slavery to one of blessing. Like the difference between a Master and a Father. As Jesus once said so beautifully,

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“The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath.” (Mark 2:27, NIV)

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There are times when we all must pick up our bedrolls and walk off.

Or rather, run off.

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Run into the arms of the redeemer who holds no guest list in his hands. Someone who is ready for me, before I even think about coming back to him.

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Run away from judgments handed down from high horses. Run away from decrees that seem to discipline only people like you. Run away from easy answers. Run away from religion.

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Fall into questions that don’t require a thirty-second response. Fall into risks that make your faith true. Fall boldly and fall fearlessly.

Fall until you feel the arms of the almighty catching you.

If Jesus says you can walk, walk on.

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RR

Back Roads to Bethlehem

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It’s the pilgrimage for the proud.

For those with halos screwed on too tight.

 

In every precipice that we slip down

And in all our detours into darkness

We are taken aback by our own depravity

Our worthiness in our unworthiness

 

You may start from the north

And I may from the south

But we both see the same star

We seek the same savior

Before I even saw it shining off in the distance, I was told it wasn’t really for me. I was told if I wanted to find it, I had to start where they were. I had to be one of them. I had to match them step for step. From on top of a peak, they peered down upon me. Asking to come, they said I could not; unless… I severed my scarlet letter. It would repulse the King, they said.

I refused and they called me a contradiction. I told them I tried and they said my faith was too small. Either way, that star was not speaking to me.

So I ran on alone.

Down back roads to Bethlehem, driven by nothing more than a hunger for hope in something I did not, do not, will not and cannot understand. I ran and I ran and I ran. Through thickets and thorns, over daisy dressed mountains, into towns of the gutter, I ran. Until the gravel turned to grass and stones became fertile, with my eye on the star and hand over my heart, I ran and I ran and I ran.

Down back roads to Bethlehem I found a burrow of new faces. Everything was so different there. Saints spoke of scripture in words I had never heard; yet their language felt so familiar.

Clothing me in a love I thought to be legendary, I was drawn in to the hearth of their fires. It was there that stories were swapped and songs were sung and laughs were loud and tears were sent trickling, as we uncovered each layer of the other. For a moment I thought I was already there.

Leaving I turned as I heard one say, “I’ll see you… I’ll see you at the star.”

Faster I flew down back roads to Bethlehem. With each place I met more living in love than not.

And shedding my shame came all the easier.

Soon enough the star hung not twenty yards away. Below it sat the saints of the burrow and the soldiers of the peak. All of them waving me to a spot they had saved.

And stories were swapped. Songs were sung. Laughs were loud. Tears were sent trickling and love, oh love, burned again.

Beneath the umbrella of the star, we experienced our own rescue. None of us deserved it. None of us could earn it. None of us could pay it back.

It just was.

He was.

Down back roads to Bethlehem, saints and soldiers and even runaways like me reached our redemption. Along fault lines of faith, regardless of the rules, we all found the prodigal’s father. We were made new and perfect. We were celebrated as sons and daughters. We were loved as we were.

And we rolled up our sleeves and traded tales of our bruises… denying the lie that we were ever really alone.

 

RR

Four Visits from Christ BEFORE he was Born

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So as the season swings into the climax of Christmas, I find myself searching for the weirdest elements in the story cause I’m weird. I look for the stuff that’s not taught in Sunday Schools or sung by carolers. None of it is really critical, what I am writing is mostly speculative, but, alas, to those lovers of scriptural surprises, enjoy!

It wasn’t until a couple years ago, when I was so close to a sweet nap in the middle of my Christian theology class that my professor said something that got my attention. “Jesus came BEFORE he was baby. Well… he may have.” I think he saw I was close to snoozing, when I looked up he was looking directly at me, so I blinked at him a couple times to let him know “okay, I’m listening.”

Some of these stories are eerily similar to a Christmas flick with a surprise visit from Santa. Like the ones where the janitor, who no one has ever seen before, shows up in the nick of time to impart lifesaving wisdom and as the characters walk away scratching their heads, they take a look back only to find He. Has. VANISHED.

Of the many possible moments of Christ’s early appearances, four really intrigued me.

1.  Melchizedek

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After Abram returned from defeating Kedorlaomer and his allied kings, the king of Sodom came out to greet him in the Valley of Shaveh, the King’s Valley. Melchizedek, king of Salem, brought out bread and wine—he was priest of The High God—and blessed him:

 

Blessed be Abram by The High God,
Creator of Heaven and Earth.
And blessed be The High God,
who handed your enemies over to you.

 

Abram gave him a tenth of all the recovered plunder.

(Genesis 14:17-20, MSG)

 

The appearance of the Melchizedek is so peculiar because there is no other reference of him in the Old Testament stories (except in the Psalms). It was like he suddenly appeared out of thin air to Abram. Yet, even while there is no evidence of a historical relationship between these two, Abram gives him 10% of his loot, suggesting a previous understanding.

And He celebrates the Passover with bread and wine before there even was a Passover. (Reference to Jesus’ last supper?”

AND THEN this weird blip on the Old Testament screen makes a huge mark in the book of Hebrews.

“For this Melchizedek, king of Salem, priest of the Most High God, met Abraham returning from the slaughter of the kings and blessed him, and to him Abraham apportioned a tenth part of everything. He is first, by translation of his name, king of righteousness, and then he is also king of Salem, that is, king of peace. He is without father or mother or genealogy, having neither beginning of days nor end of life, but resembling the Son of God he continues a priest forever.” (Hebrews 7:3)

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2. The Wrestler

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As an angry mob raced to his doorstep, Jacob sent his family across the river to safety and chose to wait the gang out. We are told in Genesis that he starts wrestling with a “man” until the break of day.

The upper hand falls to Jacob, as he is able to overtake the mysterious figure by morning.

The man said, “Let me go; it’s daybreak.”

Jacob said, “I’m not letting you go ’til you bless me.”

27 The man said, “What’s your name?”

He answered, “Jacob.”

28 The man said, “But no longer. Your name is no longer Jacob. From now on it’s Israel (God-Wrestler); you’ve wrestled with God and you’ve come through.”

(Genesis 32:26-28, MSG)

I could write a million more posts on the meaning of this story alone (I love this story). It is so familiar to how I feel 99% of the time about my own relationship with God.

 

Always wrestling.

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3. Abraham’s visitors

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Remember when God laid a verbal smack down on Sarah with his, “yes you did; you laughed” in response to her lie? Well, that may have been Jesus.

Jesus:

56 Your father Abraham rejoiced at the thought of seeing my day; he saw it and was glad.”

57 “You are not yet fifty years old,” they said to him, “and you have seen Abraham!”

58 “Very truly I tell you,”Jesus answered, “before Abraham was born, I am!”

(John 8:56-58, NIV, emphasis mine)

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4. Furnace Angel

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When the Angel came to rescue Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, he was called an interesting name.

“But look!” he said. “I see four men, walking around freely in the fire, completely unharmed! And the fourth man looks like a son of the gods!” (Daniel 3:25, MSG, emphasis mine)

Pastor Mark Driscoll believes without a doubt that this is Jesus… Not sure if I am beyond a doubt and I am equally unsure of how I feel about agreeing with Pastor Mark on anything, but it’s interesting to think about. Like a son of the Gods.

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Important to note is that none of these appearances (if they were in fact Jesus) are the same thing as what happened when Christ was actually born. If these were examples of Him, they are what are called Christophanies, essentially nonhuman appearances. Or, as I like to think of them, teasers to the main event.

When Jesus was born, he was fully human.

Which makes his birth even more spectacular. He came to “dwell” amongst us. No longer was he intervening on our behalf by simply stopping by for quick fixes, only to dust off and head home. He put on skin and walked alongside the worst of us. He healed the sick, defended the vulnerable and died a criminal’s death.

The God who chose to stay with us.

RR

Begging For Grace

In the wake of all of this, I need to go back and read stories like this one. I believe by the grace of Jesus that even last weeks wounds can be healed.

Registered Runaway

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Takunda Mavima had just wrapped up high school. He had been a model student and was looking forward to start four more years at a college in the fall. Following his graduation ceremony he drove off to an afterparty, riding fast on that expected “school’s out” high. The party was a kick off for these kids on what would be their last summer together.

When the evening came to a close, Takunda got behind the wheel with two friends in the car. He had been drinking. Tragically, Takunda lost control, crashed into an onramp and his two friends were both killed. Timothy See, 17, and Krysta Howell, 15.

Drunk driving is perhaps the most inexcusable reckless decision any of us could ever make. Our vehicles are considered lethal weapons by law and yet people still choose to roll the dice on joyrides.

Tim didn’t have to die. Krysta didn’t have…

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The Head and the Heart

 

There are times when the relationship with my redeemer feels like a long-distance one. While on occasion, this can be nothing more than a feeling of being stale in the faith, for most phases it comes during a season of busyness. Or at least, perceived busyness. I try to work hard, fill in time to write a short blog, catch up on emails, meet my social quota with friends and then go to bed at a reasonable hour. But rarely do I allow the schedule to dissolve and reveal the eternal reality before me. And when I get here- where I am today, I notice a couple things that have changed within me.

 

First- the Bible bores me terribly. It appears unattractive and complicated, and at the end of a chapter I will feel unmoved, even though I know I should be.

 

Second- I make the Bible into textbook. Feeling like a victim runs the risk of allowing yourself to dwarf the holiness of the words and convince you that it is only in academic study you satisfy your soul.

 

Over the course of the past several days I have tried to reconnect the dots of my faith. Burying my nose in the gospel didn’t give me a turn, so I listened to Christian music, for five minutes, then played T-Swifts new song. In the middle of the madness, I returned to the writer who has done more for my faith then any pastor ever has or could. That author is Brennan Manning.

 

Brennan has touched the lives of millions through his gorgeous works on God’s love and grace. I like to think of him, and many others like him, as a liaison between the spiritual wanderers and the father that loves them. I trust this man because of his honesty and his story of a life lived under grace. He has awoken my conscience on several occasions and consistently reminds me why I love this God so dearly.

 

One of his favorite passages of scripture-, which has become MY favorite passage of scripture- gives a glimpse into why oh why we love Him.

 

“My beloved speaks and says to me:
“Arise, my love, my beautiful one,
and come away,


11 for behold, the winter is past;
the rain is over and gone.


12 The flowers appear on the earth,
the time of singing[a] has come,
and the voice of the turtle-dove
is heard in our land.


13 The fig tree ripens its figs,
and the vines are in blossom;
they give forth fragrance.


Arise, my love, my beautiful one,
and come away.”

                        -Song of Songs 2:10-13, ESVUK (emphasis mine)

 

See, what I so often forget, when I reduce the Bible to a book report, is the intensity of our father’s affection towards us. This passage is so beautiful because of its imagery and its assurance of our belonging to him. The creator of the heavens and earth fell so deeply in love with us that he seeks to woo us, to court us, to make sure we know that he is mad with love for us.

 

There is a risk that I have found in dropping our brains at the door of the Church. But I have also found that there is a risk of our intellect overshadowing our hearts. We need both to work in conjunction.

 

Whenever I separate myself from that understanding of God as love, letting it slip into the recesses of my mind, I lose the sacredness of my search. Like the jackass student who I found out was homeless, I cannot understand God’s words without seeing the context of our relationship. I can’t look at the Bible in an attempt to reconnect with God without first understanding that this Guy is head over heels, weak at the knees, nails in the hands, in love with me. It’s a give and take. And obviously it’s a different type of relationship than ones of conversations over coffee.

 

But at the same time it is so much more reliable.

 

I look at this passage and I am reminded of why He means the world to me. It washes me in warmth over that inexpressible feeling of affection. Of being loved. Of perfect, uncensored, nails in the hand, kind of love that has the ability to bring a man back to life.

 

As Brennan wonderfully says:

“Christianity is not primarily a moral code but a grace-laden mystery; it is not essentially a philosophy of love but a love affair;” –Brennan Manning, The Ragamuffin Gospel (emphasis mine)

 

 

I hope this Sunday you’ll sit with this scripture, and allow that affection to overwhelm.

RR

TreePeople

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“22 They came to Bethsaida, and some people brought a blind man and begged Jesus to touch him. 23 He took the blind man by the hand and led him outside the village. When he had spit on the man’s eyes and put his hands on him, Jesus asked, “Do you see anything?”

24 He looked up and said, “I see people; they look like trees walking around.”

25 Once more Jesus put his hands on the man’s eyes. Then his eyes were opened, his sight was restored, and he saw everything clearly. 26 Jesus sent him home, saying, “Don’t even go into[a] the village.”

         – Mark 8:22-26 (NIV, emphasis mine)

One of the greatest treasures within the story of Christ is his sneaky way of inserting subtext into all of his actions. It keeps us guessing, and more importantly, expresses the eternally relevant messages that freshen our eyes with every turn of the page.

Taking the blind man by the hand, Jesus led him to a remote location where they could be alone. No crowds, no ovations. Just an intimate one-on-one conversation.

Between the lines of this story remains that mysterious walk and the conversation that must’ve occurred. It seems, and I have no real historical evidence for this, that Jesus intended this walk to be an intake of sorts. I think he wanted to hear this man’s story. More importantly, I think he wanted to establish a friendship.

After they settled into their makeshift hangout, Jesus spit on this man’s eyes and then laid his hands upon them. When he asked him what he saw, the man gave one of the most easily understandable descriptions, people look like trees, I know they’re not trees, but that’s what they look like. Jesus received the man’s perceptions, laid his hands upon his eyes again, and perfected his vision.

In 1st Corinthians, Paul writes:

For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.”  -1 Corinthians 13:12 (NIV, emphasis mine)

 

Jesus did not have to make a second go at healing this man. He was all-powerful. If he wanted to, he could’ve snapped his fingers and given this man the eyes of a hawk. But there was a deeper subtext he sought to convey.

We all have moments when all we need is perspective. Two weeks after I came out, I remember lying on the couch in the living room, burying my face in a pillow, shouting at my parents about the loss of my sanity. Seriously.

In the tangled mess of my thoughts I started to question whether I truly existed or if I was living in some sort of Matrix. I threw my middle finger in the air at a God that I had reduced to a mere flight of the imagination. And I just laid there, shivering in a nightmarish world that I had no hope of waking up from.

My mom looked at me, smiling.

“Honey. You’ve known that you were gay for roughly ten years and have been afraid to open up about it until now. Furthermore, you came out to the whole family and you did so less than 24 hours after a failed suicide attempt. That is a lot to happen all at once, for anyone. Now, here’s what we can do. If you believe that you are truly losing your grip on reality, you can come upstairs and lay in our bed for as long as you want. We could just sit on this for a few days. I think after this night is over, you will see that much of this is simply the anxiety of the moment. If it turns out its not, we’ll go to the hospital.”

She couldn’t possibly put herself in my head that night or roll the tape of my past decade. This was completely unfamiliar territory for her. But yet, she could still relate somehow. She knew what it was like to be swept away in the anxiety avalanche and she knew where to look for the clearing in the clouds. She took what her tears taught her and showed me that trees are not people.

That what I see is not necessarily what is.

The dialogue that takes place in Mark is an undertone of a greater truth. It is an intentional example of how we are all blind when left to our own devices. Without the hands of healers and the words of the wise we will always fail to see where we are situated in the greater story. I don’t think that this account is simply about repairing the fellow’s retinas. It was about restoring reality.

In our prayer life, the old adage: “pray until something changes or you change”, fits this story well. When we meet with Christ, he desires us to vent about our life. He wants us, if just for a minute, to forget the fact that he already knows and instead let him in like we would a confidant. I think he wants to take that walk with us first. As we return and return to that oasis of confidence, he continues to rub our eyes clean of lies.

It’s clear that Christ is the only force capable of clearing out our inner cobwebs, but that doesn’t mean that this happens only through prayer.

It’s a call to walk with one another no matter the distance. It’s a promise that when we reach that place of intimacy, we will see that our walls are stumbling blocks not shields. In that place, we stop theorizing about the future. We cry out: Carpe Diem! The scales slowly pile up at our feet and our distortions no longer deny us that sweet breath of life. And then, we dust one another off and take a different road home.

We see trees and we see people.

RR

Forgive them, Father

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I cannot imagine what it would be like to grow up without a dad.

Not just the physical absence of a father, but with a workaholic, all-too-serious sort, that just so happens to have his name on your birth certificate. The jerk that chooses conference calls over chanting at a Twins game. The idol that forever promises a fishing trip that never happens. The drunk that just spent away your soccer money.

I have been so blessed.

See, my pops is the total package. If you think yours is better, you are so wrong.

The most magical memories of my childhood consist of him chasing me around the house, falling asleep while he yawned through Bernstein Bears, and sitting securely in his lap as sirens rang. Beyond being the playmate of my siblings and myself, he was always our biggest fan. Whether it be in sports, music, school plays, or video games, he covered us in his confidence.

But, being an unathletic son of a father who loves sports, my performance as a player was always a sensitive spot.

There was one time in particular.

I am a slow runner. Known this since I was little. Just an accepted fact of life. So, it makes perfect sense that in 5th grade I signed up for track. The consequences of this courage were not fully realized until I faced my first meet.

There I was, waiting for the shot of the gun in my hurdles heat, looking right and left at the boys and girls gritting their teeth as if they had waited their whole lives for this moment.

Then,

Shot.

Hesitation.

First hurdle knocked.

Last in the pack.

Second down.

Third down.

Everyone is watching.

Across the line, all alone.

I think, in those seconds of slow moving shame, an emotional instinct kicked in and I involuntarily looked up for my dad. Feeling like a failure, I imagined that maybe he would give me an “oh well” look or some sort of pity eyes. But the moment my eyes met his, I knew I had won something.

He was all smiles.

Thumbs up.

Laughing, not insultingly, but in a “way to finish!” way.

I smiled.

I laughed.

And forgot about failure.

He wears the cape better than most, and walks more humbly than I wish he would.

In the moments after I came out of the closet, that same dad swept me up in his arms. As I cried and cried, he whispered “I love you!” “I love YOU!”. He was more than just the dad I needed him to be in that moment. He was more. He is more.

As these things commonly go in the post-closet period, we sought out resources as to what we should next. After much searching, a good friend that was heavily involved in the ex-gay crowd recommended that my parents, especially my dad, watch a video entitled Homosexuality 101. It’s a short, 20 minute show that can be accessed online.

Sitting in the family room with my older brother, I heard sniffling and staggering steps approaching me. It was my dad. He was weeping. He started telling me how sorry he was that he failed me as a father. He spoke of how he pressured me too much to succeed and how that probably created a distance between us and how there were so many unmentionable mistakes he made. When asked, I couldn’t get an answer as to what they were. He was heart broken, and more miserable than I had ever seen him. I can’t even imagine what his thoughts were at that moment.

See, he had just watched a video that explains the reason why a young man develops same sex attractions is because his father never established a close relationship to his child at a young age. He did not express his love fully enough for the young boy in question to reciprocate, and in turn, trust him. The mystery of homosexuality could all be tied back to the dad that wasn’t there.

In layman’s terms: Dad, you fucked up. The pain your child feels is a direct result of your refusal to display a love that the child could believe in. You probably didn’t take him to enough hockey games, or ever confront a scraped knee with “rub some dirt in it.” You made yourself an enemy to your boy and now the consequences of your ineptitude have made him into a homo. Go sit in the corner and think about what you have done.

Really?

This guy?

The daddy who kissed me on the head every night before I fell asleep and, without fail, told me he loved me every chance he got? The man who ended any argument with another reminder that he loved me? The guy who was always there? At every sports event? Every play? Every recital? Every trip? The dad that abandoned his job whenever I took ill? The father that rocked me in his arms at my most vulnerable moment?

There was never a single second (unless I was behaving horribly) that I ever ever ever felt like a disappointment to him or wasn’t loved by him. There has never been a deficiency in our relationship at all.

Despite the evidence of this theory being fully debunked and labeled a made up myth, the church continues to call it Truth. And being a man of the church, my dad bought it.

The paralyzing guilt of imaginary memories of running away from his paternal role has landed him in church-inflicted purgatory.

Even as I fight with reason, faith, the American Psychiatric Association, my mom, his friends, therapists and every piece of rational data out there, I have yet to fully uproot his convinced culpability. He has started to parse out fact from fiction, but the trauma of that video still haunts him.

And I don’t know why.

I don’t know why the church pedals reparative therapy as an answer to their theological dilemma, despite it resulting in countless suicides.

I don’t know why they think its fit to equate gays to rapists and murders.

I don’t know why they say dads make kids gay.

I don’t know why they flog my father.

But I do know how I am to respond.

Even if its through clenched teeth.

 “Forgive them father, for they know not what they do.”

RR