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)