the eraser | the third month

I don't think that these are the sort of things that you're supposed to find out about yourself in this career, that you lack character in almost every facet, that you're petty in the most petty of ways, that you betray essential principles for the simplest of conveniences--to say nothing of actual tests of integrity.  The pride that you began to think diminished is nothing short of entrenched, revealing a heart impossibly resilient to grace and forgiveness. These aren't the sort of things that you're supposed to find out about yourself, but they're exactly the sort of things that I have.

//

...and it still wouldn’t come off, that’s the thing. I lifted my shirt to the light, but light wasn’t needed; what once was a white shirt was consorting with a few other colors that were decidedly not white—which sucked.  Because I liked that shirt.  But hate spots. But there is nothing unique about that, no one likes spots.  Whites should be white, perhaps whiter.  Colored clothes should be the colors originally designated.  That’s the whole selling point for Tide.  I had borrowed a bleach pen from a friend; she had warned me that "the last time I used this I burned holes in clothes; so...be careful." Having tried a somewhat ridiculous number of washing techniques a fully ridiculous number of times, I applied liberally.  But, after what felt like its dozenth run, the bleach washed away, but the horrid spots remained.

The thing about the stains that was really bothering me was their origin.  The seemed to almost spontaneously emerge, polluting my previously fine, perfectly white shirt.  It honestly appeared to me as if it was the washing process itself that engendered spots on my good shirt, because it was almost certainly not because of any stains that I had washed it in the first place: the ordinary accumulation of everyday had made it necessary...or else I'd be deemed slovenly.  But what started to bother me even more was the irrepressible urge I now had to discard the soiled garment.  This had never really occurred to me as a dilemma before, but for some reason it became compelling: for what reason, precisely, is a stained shirt no longer worth wearing--or even having?

//

By the end of Romans 7, you can see Paul is clearly struggling.  The letter, up to this point, is too complex to represent in a boiled down thesis statement, but it can be thought of as a more developed theological extension of J3sus' pharisaical denunciations.  Paul is trying to break down a Jewish understanding of s@lvation which equates cultural practice with personal redemption; he's trying to tell them that their heritage as the people of God does not grandfather them into the Kingdom that J3sus ushered in, and that it is through faith, not lineage or ritual, that the transaction of s@lvation works.  But by the 7th chapter you can tell Paul is starting to freak:

For we know that the law is spiritual: but I am carnal, sold under sin. For that which I do I allow not: for what I would, that do I not; but what I hate, that do I. If then I do that which I would not, I consent unto the law that it is good. Now then it is no more I that do it, but sin that dwelleth in me. For I know that in me (that is, in my flesh,) dwelleth no good thing: for to will is present with me; but how to perform that which is good I find not. For the good that I would I do not: but the evil which I would not, that I do. Now if I do that I would not, it is no more I that do it, but sin that dwelleth in me. I find then a law, that, when I would do good, evil is present with me. For I delight in the law of God after the inward man: but I see another law in my members, warring against the law of my mind, and bringing me into captivity to the law of sin which is in my members.

Paul is dealing with something here that I couldn't understand until now.  As a person who does what I do, you begin to think yourself something elevated--to, at least, some degree.  That you have transcended problems that were the problems of you before now, but, as now is now, those were then, you have moved on.  But as I saw myself here and weaker, in certain ways, than I have ever before, I found the thesis untenable.  The pride that was the pride of Alex in America still in-dwelled, making its malicious and blundering way into this conversation and that situation, making arguments out of discussions, tension out of teasing.  And I found myself feeling the irrepressible urge to sink into depression, because I had ruined it all—because people had seen what and who I was and what and who I was wasn't all that great after all...even after all this.

This brings me to my shirt and how much I wanted to throw it away. I really wanted to throw it away. But why, exactly? I think I wanted it gone for the same reason that we feel uncomfortable when some homeless, disheveled, or an overall "lower-class" fellow shuffles his way into the average club on an ordinary Sunday.  For years I would look on such people with something I can only describe as revulsion.  Not that I wouldn't try to "reach out"...oh, I would.  But almost invariably my attempts felt as disingenuous to me as they had all along to the other person, and I walked away wanting to pat myself on the back but feeling I should be slapped in the face.  We want to throw away shirts with stains because as much as we'd like to tell ourselves that we aren't all about such things--about looks, about appearances, about (the semblance of perfection)--we're all about such things; as much as we tell ourselves that Chr1st is for the broken, we'd rather go to club with the fixed, the functional, the moderately attractive--and down the aisle with the very.

As much as Romans is a letter to the Romans, we have to remember that, in part, Paul was writing it to himself.  Before Paul was Paul, he was Saul, and Saul was a man very much about keeping up appearances, because Saul was the quintessential Jew.  Consumed with liturgy, performance, culture, and custom, Paul's faith was an inherited trait meticulously maintained. But J3sus destroyed that kind of thinking—and along with it Saul's life:

When J3sus had finished speaking, a Pharisee invited him to eat with him; so he went in and reclined at the table.  But the Pharisee, noticing that Jesus did not first wash before the meal, was surprised.  Then the Lord said to him, "Now then, you Pharisees clean the outside of the cup and dish, but inside you are full of greed and wickedness.  You foolish people!  Did not the one who made the outside make the inside also?"

The outside was all Saul knew, but Paul knew better; but, even though he did know better, it didn't mean that he didn't chafe under the contradiction of his existence, an awareness of redemption that fought minute by minute with the flesh that sought damnation.

//

Charging full towards the basket, the student's drive was on a course that intersected the bulk of my mass, which, considering the size of a Chinese college student relative to me, was considerable.  But, in an indefatigable gesture, he pressed on--and strong.  Almost bemused, I stood my ground.  As the collision unfolded, however, it seemed the valiant effort was just that, an effort, and the student ricocheted off me with resounding effect, hurtling to the ground with all the impact 110 lbs can muster. I gently laughed and offered the student a hand.  Eyes lowered, he took my hand, a wry grin that reeked of shame spread slowly across his face as he accepted, his embarrassment almost palpable.

I had been playing well that day.  I made good power moves in the post and got great rebounds, steals, and the occasional block.

Already ahead by a solid 6 baskets, I drove to the basket (to the right, of course) into what was now obligatory triple team coverage, a teammate signaled he was open for the pass... but I had other ideas.  Backing into them with what should be a post move (decidedly well out of the post), I spun and launched a fade-away shot.  With the smoothest of motions, the ball passed through the basket, and I bent down low a let out a celebratory yell, christening the shot a "great shot" as the other team let out a sigh, almost in unison.

I won a lot that day.

//

I think we often misunderstand the consequence of forgiveness.  When we accept J3sus into our hearts, we accept that he has now purged us of our sins--that we are bleached white, where once we were assorted shades of black.  And we walk around accordingly, presenting ourselves as new, repaired, and whole, in spite of whatever is actually the case and spiteful of those who do not make the same efforts.  But the fact of the matter is that even after forgiveness, our spots remain; they are visible and may remain so for years.  The consequences of what we were reverberates in who we are, who people see us as, and in the reality we live; the consequences of our sinful past and present aren't erased the moment J3sus enters our hearts.  They're there for everyone to see.  When the B1ble says He has washed us clean, it's fully significant to us only if we understand what's truly being cleaned, because if we don't, we'll suffer under burdensome facade.  But I think the real problem is that as burdensome as that facade is, to many of us it is preferable to actual change.  I mean, the thing about stained shirts is that if you wear one you've got to define yourself by other means; assumptions come with the truth outright, with spots and stains seen, and we'd rather save the effort of actual repentance (as the source of character) and present (and fastidiously maintain) its presumable visible manifestation, e.i. a clean shirt.

The thing that puzzles me about a stained garment is the near-dread of wearing one; I can't quite pin down the origin of the fear.  I almost feel like we're terrified that if we wear something with a stain then other people will become certain that we actually live in the real world.  This is clearly unacceptable. Ideally, I suppose, accidents should never happen, the unintended is always avoided and mistakes are made by other for us to discuss in a straight white room with measured white shirts and buffed white teeth with clean white people.

Paul was writing to himself because his life before Chr1st was all those things, but his life after seemed anything but.  It wasn't as if he was all good before it J3sus showed up, but for him measuring up to a standard only skin deep was within his understanding.  At least he could look the part, when part was the whole.  But when J3sus opened his eyes to the reality of his sin, utter panic commenced.

So I haven't been reading the Word consistently recently, and I got into weird quasi fights with some of my team members; I got lazy in ways that matter, and I've been depressed.  I can link the depression to the lack of Word study.  I can link it to the spaces that are missing in my life because of the people that are. I wanted to end this thing with some punchy little ending, with a great conclusion that's super meaningful and all that, but I can't: partly because I feel like crap and mostly because it would be a total lie.  I refuse to compose some knowing, self-satisfied Chr1stian-y end to what I always want to be honestly expressed: my opinion written down.   I want to get forgiveness.  I want to get repentance.  Paul was struggling with it so hard; I read it, and it hit me so full and true.  I don't get how I can be saved from something I seem to be determined to return to at every feasible opportunity.  Then it's so weird, because at times I feel a grace overwhelming at high pitch pushing,

and I'm all in.

"What a wretched man I am!  Who will rescue me from this body of death? Thanks be to God--through J3sus Chr1st our Lord!"

(the part in Romans 7 right after that other part)

pattern recognition | the second month

There are some that call themselves believers, L**, but they look at the f@ith as a religion, a set of rules and beliefs, instead of a relationship, I said earnestly, eyes half on L**, half intently searching for pieces of duck in the swirling, fragrant broth.  I was tired, and this conversation had already been going on for a long time.  I think knowing G*d is about having a relationship with Him; religion is about accepting societal customs.  Despite being nearly vacant, the hot pot restaurant was curiously loud—a noise that emerged from the pervasive bustle that characterized Chongqing.  Carrying platters of raw meat, potatoes, mushrooms, and vegetables of a kind that only grow in China, the waitresses hurried between the backs of mostly empty seats. Two men in table next to us were talking to each other—but looking, decidedly, elsewhere; bifurcated (or fractured) attention becomes habitual in a city of so many millions. 

I rarely seem be able to keep my eyes fixed and steady anymore.

In the chair next to me, L**’s constant readjusting betrayed the discomfort his placid face attempted to belie.  Slipping into autopilot, L** responded, Religion can help people get a better life, live with purpose, and feel better about themselves. I think religion is good…

There’s a dull, resonant flavor to the bitter pepper used in nearly every Chongqing dish. There was a lot of that pepper in the duck tonight.  Kicking my way back home along in the diffused bloom of a streetlight battling gloom, I mulled over L**’s backpedaling.   Nearly a month ago L** had sent me texts that had me thinking he was on the verge of a breakthrough.  Really, it was the logical thing to think.  But now, in the space of a few minutes, those hopes seemed dash. S@lv@tion isn’t supposed to work this way.

G*d, according to some Atheist thinkers, is product of the evolutionarily advantageous human inclination of pattern recognition.  Imagine you’re part of a tribe of hunters several thousand years ago.  Stalking through the bush, you think you see a pair of eyes and the shape of a big cat in the tall grass.  You think you see something that matches, enough, the pattern of a big cat to act accordingly.  Operating under this assumption, you flee.  Now, no matter if, in this particular instance, there was a big cat in the bush, it is beneficial to your survival to act as if there was.  If every time you think you see a shape that signals danger you act assuming the danger is real, then you will avoid the possible danger in every instance; however, if you ignore those signals, you might be right, but it only takes one wrong decision to make the strategy less worthwhile than a strategy that always guarantees your safety.  Pattern recognition, according to this theory, was beneficial to human survival and cognitive development, but, not just any pattern, it was advantageous for humans to interpret an intelligence behind what could be, and probably often was, just some odd arrangement of plants.  Thus, such pattern recognition is fundamental to human thought, and it is this behavior, on a larger conceptual scale, that created concepts like G*d. 

Christ@ins like to think in patterns. All people do.  But Christ@ins look for the patterns of G*d.  They look for situations to match up to their concept of G*d and his plan so that life makes sense.  We (unconsciously) build and create patterns through the stories we tell and through the ways we interpret past events.  In this situation, G*d was doing blank; “Yesterday, G*d taught me the importance of patience.”  Patterns are a means to meaning and therefore, bring us comfort.  We all feel very nervous in situations we cannot understand or predict.  But if we run across a situation that is analogous to another we have seen, we instantly feel more at ease, because we’ve seen it before.  Christians, in particular, generate and store such patterns to help them understand and predict the will of G*d.  In relationships or evangelism, especially, believers try to divine the will of G*d, looking for signs and signals that might reveal His plan; we use situations we’ve read about, heard of, and/or lived through—event patterns—to give us insight about the future; habitual pattern recognition naturally builds these expectations.  But, often enough, we find that reality is an ill-fitting garment.  Our expectations never materialize, and we are left perplexed—doubting G*d’s plan, significance, or even His very existence—all because what we thought should happen, didn’t. 

//

Hunched over—practically on—a city trashcan, a man, little more than a tuft of hair on pile filthy cotton, pressed a tongue toward the hay colored refuse, grasped in his small-knuckled fist, that looked the consistency and texture of pudding. His hands, invisible but for the battered, thin fingers emerging from his olive coat, slipped quickly back into the bin after he had finished the handful. His bowed back was cradled by a desultory stack of packages tethered to a length of bamboo, withered legs bent into submission by the desire to stave off starvation. 

//

But this mindset is hardly rational and, even, strikingly inconsistent with our ostensible assumptions about the nature of G*d.   In terms of the nature of His being, Jehov@h is defined by three characteristics: omnipotence, omnipresence, and omniscience.  These characteristics are all unmatched by anything that we are aware of within reality and are, therefore, incomprehensible.  G*d is, by necessity of his divine nature, impossible to understand.  Why is it, then, that we are surprised when the events that He oversees defy our concepts of what should and shouldn’t happen?  If we really believed that G*d’s nature is so difficult and impossible, we should really be more surprised whenever we find his will intelligible than when we don’t.   It stands to reason that the failure of many of our expectations should come expected—not unanticipated.   J3sus explains this in when he’s talking to Nicodemus: “The wind blows where it wishes, and you hear its sound, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.”  But instead, believers seem to base their belief on the premise that it will provide an explanation for all things, past, present, future, and, when a ready explanation isn’t so ready, our contingent faiths find themselves in deep trouble. 

I think we’ve forgotten what faith really means.   Paul, in the very beginning of Romans, outlines the importance of faith: “For I am not ashamed of the gospel, for it is the power of G*d for salvation to everyone who believes, to the Jew first and also to the Greek.  For in it the righteousness of G*d is revealed from faith for faith, as it is written, ‘The righteous shall live by faith.’”  Faith is our S@lvations foundation.  But it seems like most of us are bent on obtaining a faithless belief—that the strength of our belief is contingent on its ability to produce all answers and predict all events, at least personal ones.  Christi@n apologists, in particular, like to implicate, or explicitly state, that our faith isn’t really a faith, that it is the inevitable logical outcome of a rational and open mind.   But I think that such an attitude stands defiance of the eminently apparent incomprehensibility of the world that we live in and the G*d who wants to know us.  Not much of what we “know” is the product of pure rationality; most of it is based on articles of faith tacitly accepted.  The reality of reality, for instance, is such a faith-based assumption°.  When questions and unmet expectations are looked on as problems, the necessity of faith that is so essential to salvation is obscured and a perverted manner of viewing Christi@n beliefs is promoted.  Questions and unmet expectations are not just causes for doubt, but instead opportunities to display the vigor of a salvation whose efficacy overwhelms these.

Faith is the essence that drives our relationship with G*d; it is the basis of salvation and the force behind it.  When we encounter problems, when events just don’t turn out, when questions persist, let’s not act shocked or be shaken.  Don’t work to strip the faith from your beliefs.  When we feel the necessity of satisfaction at every turn, we suffocate the faith that is the genesis of our relationship with G*d.   A faith contingent on the regular meeting of expectations has little right to call itself faith and is most likely a “belief in self” more than a faith G*d.   If reality fails to live up to our hopes, are we upset because G*d wasn’t glorified or because we weren’t?  Perhaps instead of losing faith in G*d’s ability to carry our His will we should lessen our confidence in our ability to foresee it—like the wind in J3sus’s example.  It is the worst possible mistake in a Christi@n’s life to doubt G*d when we should only doubt ourselves.

But sometimes circumstances seem contrary to not only our own reasonable expectations, but the overall will of G*d—sometimes they actually seem to contradict His seemingly apparent, scripturally revealed plan.  We’ve all experienced moments in our life where the results of following what is quite obviously G*d’s will quite obviously fail.  Perhaps for the believer, these situations are the hardest to deal with.   Paul didn’t seem to have the same reaction; in second Timothy, he expresses earnest feelings of abandonment:

Be diligent to come to me quickly; for Demas has forsaken me, having loved this present world, and has departed for Thessalonica—Crescens for Galatia, Titus for Dalmatia.  Only Luke is with me….Alexander the coppersmith did me much harm.  May the Lord repay him according to his works.  You also must beware of him, for he has greatly resisted our words. 

At my first defence no one stood with me, but all forsook me.  May it not be charged against them.

Paul’s account is troubling, but the letter doesn’t end there; “But,” Paul continues, “the Lord stood with me and strengthened me, so that the message might be preached fully through me.”

The consequences of Paul’s obedience seem counterintuitive: those that were supposed believers left him; the army of G*d was represented by one.  He followed G*d’s will intently, but his harvest was bitter.  When we think about biblic@l figures, the stories that come to mind are of faith rewarded in deliverance—rarely do we conjure images of belief met with abandonment and failure.  But Paul defined failure a different way; his concerns didn’t rest on difficult outcomes, but on his relationship with and obedience to G*d through them.  The only consequences that should concern us are internal.  If our posture is one of worshipful faithfulness, G*d’s will is done and His Glory made manifest.  Faith is the beginning and end of G*d’s will for our lives.   It is through our faith that G*d is glorified, so, as long as we have faith, why do we worry?

The long-expected messiah was never visualized as a homeless carpenter, criminal sympathizer, and itinerant teacher; he was supposed to be the physical savior of a physical national; but instead he was the internal redeemer of individual spirits.  J3sus consistently emphasized the internal in his ministry; isn’t it about time that such a realm became focal point of our life, that our internal response to events, instead of the events themselves, became the pith and marrow of godly pursuit?

L** (or anyone) and the look of G*d’s plan for him (or anyone) cannot be the crux, or a crux, for my faith.  If it is, what sort of faith do I have?  

People, as I’ve said, deal in patterns, and we can only recognize patterns we’ve seen before.  Why should we be surprised that atheists cannot interpret a G*d whose language they’ve never learned?  Why should I be surprised that L** cannot recognize a pattern he’s never seen?  Why should I be surprised that he cannot see the same G*d I can?  It’s like expecting him to understand Melville if he didn’t know English: it’s lost on him.  And, even though I know the language, much of it, like Melville, is lost on me too.  I can only hope for the faith to thrive in the midst of it, the gift to see others come to Him, and, perhaps, the blessing to get better at the lingo. 

°(for an example of this basic principle, see The Matrix).

other, more interesting things: I almost cut off the end of my finger making breakfast; I killed an insanely huge cockroach with my B*ble; I ran into Chris Bosh (the nba player) at the airport; my bike fell apart while I was riding it; I played the best ping pong player I've ever seen; a cat jumped from a wall onto my bench during dinner; an old man lost his mind next to me and started pushing over granite pillars; I was the star of an indie film; and, there are no door-frame pull-up bars in china.

doubt | the first month

The air, thick, heavy air, hung stagnant in the waning chongqing evening. Crouching in anticipation, the obligatory tree-bound green lamps hummed softly.  The night promised a torrent of activity, because, in the night, the city is abloom. 

Ballroom dancing, roller skating, singing and storytelling performances, traditional Chinese drum line routines, and couples, dozens and hundreds of couples giggling, holding hands, pointing and laughing, eating and laughing, while men fixed their shirts (when beggars raised their hands in plea), lights and lights of every color, red, green, purple, blue, bright lights and softened lights and every this and that in between lights begged harder than beggars for attention of any kind, especially rich or western (or ideally rich western attention)—this and more was visible from my apartment window, but I wasn’t there.

The combination of jetlag and recovery from surgery had me in a trip after my trip, and, for a couple days, I lay cloistered in an eighth-story apartment while China made its busy way through the air, regardless of thickness or heaviness. In loose interpretation of the fetal position, I was passing the evening deep in A Confederacy of Dunces, John Kennedy Toole’s masterpiece.  I was on the 3ooth page, the homestretch, and wasn’t about to stop. Gripping, tragic, funny fiction. Really.  Harsh like a siren, as all default tones are, my phone went off. Text. Great.  The text was of Jeremiah 29:11. Intrigued, I scrolled to the sender.  It was L**. Great passage, I replied. What brings it to mind?

It reminds me the question i asked you before,why are you here,and now it began to make some sense to me

Which question? And why does it make sense now?

Why you choose to be here. after i read a biography of an athelety,something happen to here and she makes things right.maybe there is fate

I think we each have a destiny, l**—the full scope and form of which we may never understand

I am now in a position full of uncerrainty,i wanna to make sense things happen to me,around me, make me

What makes you so uncertain?

The future,specifically,the job. I don’t know what am i supposed to do. truth be told, i am a little scared toward future

            I understand the fear, To be honest with [you], it’s really been my relationship with and trust in g** that has helped me overcome this fear.  I promise you this is true.

Thanks, dude, it means a lot to me.

There are millions of people in china—actually, like 1.3 billion.  There are something like 40 million in the chongqing district alone. 40 million.  I can walk into the grocery store below the apartment and see thousands.  I doubt 20 of those thousands I’d see would identify themselves as followers.  I doubt 20 could tell me who J**** was (is).  The numbers overwhelm.

Such realities bring to mind every question about the justice and impartiality of the F@ther imaginable.  Why?  Why not him? or her ? or him or him or him or him or her or her or him?   It’s the scope of it all that kills.

Believers like answers.  For a lot of us, it seems to be the reason we signed up.  And there’s a very good reason to want answers: life, it seems, has a never-ending supply of questions.  And all “w” questions. “Why am I here?”; “What do I do?”; “What happens after death?”; etc. Chr1$ti@nity, for many, is the balm for existential crises.  But, after we come to believe, I think we find that all the questions don’t stop; in fact, I think we find that a whole new set of questions thrust into our midst.  And all “w” questions, too.  “Why would G*d allow evil/suffering?”; “Why isn’t everyone saved?”; “Why would a self-sufficient G*d require worship?”; this list, like the other, goes on for quite some time.  The thing is about believers is that they hate these questions. Hate them.   They feel awkward when someone poses such a question, and they can’t answer; but I think it’s time we stop holding ourselves responsible for knowing such answers, in fact, I think it’s time that we stop worrying because we don’t know the answers.

I don’t know about you, but I find the Word to be an incredibly difficult text.  Like, every time I read it I find myself intensely inspired but, often, also intensely confused; there’s just so much I don’t understand—so much I don’t get.  J3$U$ loved putting people in such a positions.  Do you remember what he said to all those followers in John 6?  I told them that if they didn’t eat his flesh and drink his blood then they wouldn’t have eternal life.  Do you remember what happened as a consequence of that statement? “On hearing it, many of his disciples said, ‘This is a hard teaching. Who can accept it?’” and “From this time many of his disciples turned back and no longer followed him” (John 6:60, 66).  And here’s the best part; it’s something I love about J3$U$: He never explains himself.  It isn’t until later that the disciples figured out what the heck he was talking about, and, when they did, it was an answer to that “hard teaching” that was better than any they could have devised.  J3$U$, it seems, wasn’t concerned with the disciples knowing all the answers, He just wanted them to have faith. 

I think that the world that G*d presents us is, similarly, a “hard teaching.”  I mean when we look at all the genocides and tragedies, rapes, murders, the bodies of the tortured who suffered a death beyond comprehension or look at millions upon millions who do not believe, therefore, might go to hell, we have to admit to ourselves that we just don’t get it; that it’s “a hard teaching”—“who can accept it?”   And quite often, when cornered, we conjure up some half-rational answer that convinces no one, especially not ourselves; it’s an answer that ends up doing more harm than good, to the listener as well as the teller.   But, if you asked the disciples what J3$U$ meant right after he said that flesh and blood thing, they wouldn’t have the slightest clue; what they did know, however, was this:

You do not want to leave too, do you?” J3$U$ asked the Twelve.

Simon Peter answered him, “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.  We have come to believe and to know that you are the Holy One of G*d.”

How awesome is that?  You see, belief, for the disciples, had nothing to do with having all the answers, because they already had enough reason to believe in J3$U$ and His word in the first place.  Their knowledge of G*d was so secure that the fact they didn’t know didn’t bother them, because the strength of what they did know overpowered the weight of what they didn’t. When you know G*d, I mean really know Him, that relationship is stronger than anything else because it’s more real and true than anything else could possibly be.  It’s a knowledge of something that transcends our perceptions and evaluations and resides at the very core of our beings.

            When we rush for and give that feeble answer or feel obligated to give one even when we don’t have one, it’s really far more worrisome than no answer at all, because it seems that the answer we’ve created is does more to cause us doubt than it does to assuage the doubts of another.  It speaks to a relationship with God that is faulted at the core, a relationship based not on a true knowledge of G*d  but a vexed relationship dependant on a ready and reasonable explanation of all things.  If you’d approach a chemist and ask him/her what causes the Strong Nuclear Force, her inability to answer causes her no distress at all; she doesn’t reexamine everything else she knows because she can’t answer you, because the rest of her knowledge is solid.  Why, then, do we feel compelled to answer everything as if one answerless question is reason to fault the entirety of our beliefs?  If G*d has entered our heart and we know Him, we should rest in the confidence of that, answer with honesty “I don’t know,” and believe that G*d will let us know what we need to know when we need to know it.  You know, just like the disciples.

            Don’t hear what I’m not saying.  I’m not saying you shouldn’t try to understand G*d; we definitely should; I’m only saying we shouldn’t be surprised when we don’t or act like we do when we don’t.  We have to grow comfortable not knowing what we don’t know, being honest in that, and also growing in the strength and honesty of what we do.

I think it’s for this reason that the F@ther has trusted me with people like L** and not everyone.  He doesn’t expect me to understand his justice and mercy for everyone.  It’s too much.  So really, if I’m being intellectually honest with myself, it’s about time I stopped trying to figure out what that is—what the end-all comprehensive theological answer to all is.  But the small things, those things I can understand.  I can understand His justice and mercy (to a certain extent) in L**’s life.  I can see His patience.  And the F@ther has been oh so patient.  That text was the first sign of something besides bitter atheism (not that all atheists are bitter, just that he was) that I’ve seen in L** for years.  So there’s His mercy, and why it’s so obvious here and not elsewhere is probably something I’ll never understand, but His mercy here is what I have, and His mercy here is something I’m praising Him for.   It’s about time we started thanking G*d for the answers His gives us instead of doubting Him because of the ones He hasn’t.

But this is just the very beginning of my time here in china, and my head for 10 times 10 reasons is already swimming, but I can take comfort in the daily gifts that He provides and the truth that alone defines my life.