Despair is the lack of the eternal - Kierkegaard

My friend Allison told me about a dream she had the other night. Allison is a good friend of mine whom I have had the pleasure of getting to know over the summer of 2005, she is also my boss, well, sort of. I met her when I began working at Starbucks coffee co., Allison was my first real friend there and has been a good friend for the past 6 months and she has never, ever dreamt about me before, or at least she never told me about it. We were driving around down town Seattle when she said to me,
"Nathan, I had a dream about you the other night."
"Really Allison, has this been a regular occurrence?," I asked
"Well, not really, well not like the other night at least. You see, the dream was centered around you. We were all living together in this enormous house, sort of real world style, and this man was trying to call you. He said that he was your father, well your real father, and that he was dyeing on death row and needed to speak with you before he died. The man who raised you really wasn’t your father, he had married your mom after this man went to prison for killing a man when you were two, and you knew that. In fact, you knew that this man was your father all along but you were ashamed about it, you didn’t really want any one to know. You hadn’t seen or heard much from him before, only stories that your mother told you when you when you were young. And you know how you get when your frustrated about something, how you get really quiet." She paused for a response.
"Um, yeah, I suppose I do"
"Anyways, you were like that for most of the dream, just sort of avoiding people, the phone call, and even me because you knew I would bring it up. I could tell it was really hard on you, but I couldn’t get through to you. While all this was going on, we as a house were throwing a huge party for an African friend who was dying of aids. He knew that he was going to die when he went back to Africa. This would be the last time that we would see him again, so we threw this big party to celebrate his life before he went. So the days continue to come, and your dad, your real dad, keeps calling and calling and you, you just never answer the phone and never talk to anyone about him. You seemed really bitter, and angry, but sad also. So the day of this party arrives and we all find out that it’s the same day as your fathers execution, you know it, we all know it. Everyone is planning this party to celebrate the life and death of this one man, and at the same time everyone is trying to neglect the fact that your dad is going to die. The dream climaxed when a man came to the door of our house with a box of your dads possessions. There were his clothes and a few small objects of his, but then there were these letters that you had written him when you were young, and pictures that you had drawn for him when you were only a young child. Pictures of you two when you were together. You left the party with this box and headed to a lake behind the house, I followed you. You walked to the end of the dock and dumped this box right into the river. The sounds the party were so loud behind you but you were lost to it all. There were this torches burning in the background, a huge bonfire to celebrate our African friends death, and the images of you and your father, the letters, and the pictures you drew for him were floating out into the lake. You turned around and saw me standing there. I was silent, and solid. You walked towards me, shed a tear, and walked away. The dream ended there, in this dramatic fashion. The water, the fire, the life and death, emotion and numbness."
I told her that was an amazing story, a most impressive dream. It was poetic in a sense, I think it would be a good frame for a movie someday. It makes me think about how we view. We live in a society of competing philosophies on how we should view death. Atheist take comfort in knowing there is nothing to worry about. Agnostics take comfort in acknowledging that there is nothing we are able know about it, Christians take comfort in thinking they have it all figured out. There is just one problem, each competing group suffers from the same difficulty. They all, despite their philosophies, seek comfort. We need comfort because no matter how you view death, everyone is in agreement on this one fact. It’s a separation from the living. And for that we will all continue to seek comfort. Although we can find some conclusion and debate as to why we die, where we go, and when we shall arrive there, nothing satisfies the pain resulting from the separation caused by death. The only factor that softens the sharp edge, is time.
But what do I really know, these are only a young mans ranting about older mens fears. Death touches me only on the shoulder, from a far outstretched arm, I have not been wrapped completely around by it as some have. But when that day comes, I hope to embrace is much better than I do today.

Why are you looking at me like that?

I've been listening to a lot of Jars of Clay lately. I have turned their album, The 11th Hour, into my very own worship album. The thing I appreciate about their music is that it seems so honest. It doesn't sound like they are trying to please anyone, or even worse, tailor their lyrics to an ever intrusive Christian music industry. You don't hear songs like; Where Are You, Something Beautiful, I Need You, The Eleventh Hour, and my personal favorite right now, The Edge of the Water, on the Christian radio stations or in any church I've ever been to. But these songs for the past few months have been the most honest thing I could say to God. I have not figured out why I feel this way with God, Jars of Clay doesn't really offer any answers. What they do though is express a most difficult and humiliating fact in a passionate way. How many times in church have you sung, " God I have no idea where you are right now, and I am a little angry, but mostly just lonely and tired of waiting. I thought you would never leave, is it you or me or both. God I miss you. Can I still pray, can I still seek, when I cannot even see? Are you who you said you are?" I haven't. Now I sit in churches and listen to songs like, I Exalt Thee, You are Holy, I Give You My All, and I Stand in Awe, etc. etc. I cannot sing. It would be a disgrace to God for me to lie to his face and say words that I know I don't mean. I remember a sad story of a close friend of mine who had to speak at a conference about God's movement in her life, but at that time there was no movement that she could see. She felt lost, alone, and so confused. When she told the people in charge the told her, strait face, to just fake it. I was on fire when she told me this. It's pretty hard to get me angry, I was so much angry for my sake as much as for the impression those words have on our understanding of Christian spirituality and individual spiritual integrity. When things seem at a loss with God, just fake it, is a piece of advice that I could never believe would come from the lips of God. There is not justifiable reason for such a suggestion. I cannot fake my experience, or lack there of, with the God who has promised so much to me, including the promise to find him! That is why I don't sing in church anymore, at least not when I cannot mean it whole heartedly. If a song like, "Where are you" was to actually be presented at a worship service, there is no explaining how passionately I would sing out in an appeal for God's presence. If a song like, "Silence" were to be played, I would scream the words out in a cry for God's movement. But for now, I only have this one choice. Sing out something I cannot mean and fake it so my "Christian" friends stop starring at me, or I listen and wonder. Seeing as how I would rather die that fake anything with God, I will sit and listen, longing to say something meaningful to God.

My first thoughts

I started a new blog today. I was, and am, working on a book about all my random thoughts about God and Christianity, well, Life, the Universe, and Everything really, and the answer is not as simple as 42. I have this problem though, I cannot seem to get over the intimidation of a blank page before me. I long to write beautiful, challenging, meaningful words, but all I can think is, well Nate, your about to post up some more of your crappy writing (In my head I sometimes use stronger language depending on the day). So I remembered something, when I was taking art classes we use to get this strikingly white pieces of sketch board to do our work on. But when you have that clean, bright white page in front of you, its really really hard to be satisfied with any mark you put on that page, no matter what you do it's like your taking away from the beauty of that blank page. So my teacher would have us throw, quite literally, our sketch board on the tile floor, and then check to see if we had any gum, or worse, on our shoes, and then we would walk on that bright white, clean, board. When we were done, the page had scuff marks all over it, it was still white, but not as white, not so intimidatingly bright, and perfect. It was no longer the case that any mark made on that page would take away from the beauty it already was. Now we had nothing to worry about. Any thing we did would only improve the page before us. This is my dirty sketch board, metaphorically speaking, and if something truly beautiful is made here, it will find its way into my other blog, the not so messy one, the important one. But if your interested in my not so clean thoughts, (that sounds bad, but you know what I mean) than please read on.