There is nothing more harmful to one’s character than attendance at some spectacle, because vices more easily creep into your soul while you are being entertained. When I return from spectacle, I am greedier, more aggressive, and more addicted to pleasurable sensations; I am more cruel, more inhumane–all because I have been with other humans! Recently, I happened to stop at a noon-hour entertainment, expecting humor, wit, and some relaxing intermission when men’s eyes rest from watching men’s blood. But it was quite the opposite. The morning matches had been merciful in comparison. Now all niceties were put aside, and it was pure and simple murder. the combatants have absolutely no protection. Their whole bodies are exposed to one another’s blows, and thus each never fails to injure his opponent. Most people in the audience prefer this type of match to the regular gladiators or the request bouts. And why not! There are no helmets or shields to deflect the swords. Who needs armor anyway? Who needs skill? These are all the just ways to delay death. In the morning, men are thrown to the lions and the bears; at noon, they are thrown to the combatants who will in turn kill them, and they make a victor stay for another slaughter. For every combatant, therefore, the outcome is certain death. They fight with swords and with fire. And this goes on while the arena is supposedly empty. “But one of these men is a robber.” And so? “But he killed a man.” Well, since he killed a man, he deserves capital punishment. But what did you do, you wretch, to deserve the punishment of watching? –”Kill him, whip him, burn him! Why does he approach combat so timidly? Why does he kill so reluctantly? Why does he die so unwillingly? Why must he be driven with whiplashes to face sword wounds? Let them expose their naked chests to one another’s weapons. That is the intermission for the gladiators. So let’s have some men murdered. Don’t just stop the entertainment!” –Don’t you understand that bad examples recoil upon those who set them?

Seneca the  Younger, Letters, 7.2-5

Alypius’s friends took him to the ampitheater on a day of cruel and bloody events, even though he was protesting vehemently and resisting and saying, “You may drag my body into that place, but can you focus my mind and eyes on those spectacles? Though present in body, I will be absent, and I will thus prevail over you and the spectacles.” . . . When they arrived at the ampitheatre and took seats where they could find them, the whole place was feverish with the most savage blood-lust. Alypius closed his eyes and forbade his mind to pay attention to such great atrocities. If only he had shut his ears as well! For, at a certain moment in the gladiatorial match, when a huge shout from the entire crowd hit him hard, he was overwhelmed by curiosity. Thinking that he was prepared to scorn and rise above whatever he might see, he opened his eyes. . . . As soon as he saw the blood, he drank in the savagery. He did not turn away, but rather fixed his gaze on the sight, and swallowed the madness, and lost rational control. He was thrilled by the viciousness of the combat and became drunk with blood-lust. And now he was not the man he had been when he arrived, but was one of the crowd which he had joined, and a true companion of those men who had dragged him there. What more can I say? He watched, he shouted, he became inflamed, and he took away from the spectacle an insanity which then goaded him to return.

Augustine, Confessions, 6.9

Horrifying. –Yet, I seem to recall myself saying, after a movie, “Wasn’t that an awesome death?!” May God have mercy on our merciless world!

I can’t hardly grasp the amount that’s changed in my life within the past year. As of January 30, I am engaged to Rachel Shumaker.

I am so in love. Never have I experienced anything like this! And she’s been – gladly – taking up all of my time.

As for this blog, changes are in store. Or, I might take it down. I’m not sure. It needs to be something other than it has been to this point, a journal to catalog the musings of a person in transit. I’m still that, but now that I’m engaged to the love of my life,

In the meantime, here’s a play list to pass the time.

• “In the Valley of the Dying Sun” by House of Heroes // (Free EP, if you get it at AmazonMp3!)
• “Fall Into Love” by Rabbit! // (Free song, through AmazonMp3!)
• “I Love/Hate You” by Derek Webb: Stockholm Syndrome
• “Your Decision” by Alice in Chains: Black Gives Way to Blue
• “Saltwater Room” by Owl City: Ocean Eyes
• “No Response” by MuteMath: Armistice
• “Clipping” by MuteMath: Armistice
• “Don’t Stop” by Jars of Clay: The Long Fall Back to Earth

Depressing – Boys (Lesson One)

I woke up much later than I had anticipated I would. Didn’t even hear the alarm clock. Dreamt about getting to school on time to read the Gilgamesh Epic in time for Ancient Near Eastern Backgrounds but didn’t/couldn’t. I was exhausted. Tomorrow might be a little like that, too.

The day was a blur. I really wanted to be up early so that I could devote myself to school – and, at a reasonable hour, to prayer. But, I got to lunch around 12:30PM. Class started at 1:15PM. Went till 3:05PM. And, before Old Testament Theology (6:30PM-9:45PM), Dr. Block was teaching a seminar on whole-book Bible Study (4:30PM-5:45PM). And, between ANE and OT Theo, I had 40 pages of a textbook to read.

My heart was tired. And I looked into the jam-packed afternoon and wondered, How am I going to do this? Why am I even doing this in the first place?

I left class and stole off to the grad-school library to grab a study room – but was quickly informed that they were only for PhD students (of which I am not a part). And I could hear my heart cuss. Already, the time read 3:25PM, and I realized I had a decision to make: Finish the 40 pages – or pray? I want to pray. No, I don’t want to pray. Yes, I do want to pray. You’re already frustrated: what kind of prayer could this possibly produce?

Part of this fascination of this whole 30-day Prayer routine is that I get to watch myself avoid spiritual things. The inside emotion has moved from anger to frustration to whining to everything: and, partially because I want to blog about this, I find myself half amused – but mostly embarrassed – by the inner monologue that fills the space between my ears. And I’ve found, simply, that prayer angers me. –Today, even, I received a text message from a friend whose prayer life is a constant stream of fantasticalness. I look at that – and get angry.

Staring at my text book, I realized that, if I didn’t pray now, I wouldn’t do it later – so I stole off to the only other place where I knew I would be alone on campus: the fifth floor of the Billy Graham Center. The whole floor is a bit ominous: it reeks with not-finished, and the general atmosphere is cold, reclusive. Perfect.

I didn’t pull out my notebook. I’d read through it plenty of times yesterday to remember what was on there. But, even then, I wasn’t really intending on praying about those things. My emotions were welling, and I just blasted off. My voice against the heavens I was told were listening.

God… I don’t know why I’m doing this – and I’m shocked to see myself be so angry about… praying. And why now? Why in the middle of the most busy month of my year? Why not afterward? Why not when things are a bit slower? I want closeness – but at what cost?

The cost, to which I’m referring, is the fear of failing out of school. –The fear of being asked for the rest of my life to play guitar and “lead people in worship” when the Lord has not given me a guitar. –The fear that, if I get a guitar, it’ll be crap (because Christians should just be happy). –The fear that, instead of providing for my financial burden, he’ll answer with a credit card on the other side of missed bills. –The fear that trusting him is really something that he’s asked us all to do – but the blessing for doing those things is passed out randomly, ignoring or downright avoiding the real needs of real people. I can think of a thousand reasons why God doesn’t answer – and not one for why he would, but for all the reasons why I hate praying is because, I struggle to believe that God really cares about the crap I pray about.

My voice became heightened and angry. My mind rattling through a thousand things, and I finally got to the point that I just stopped speaking – and stewed, deeply, over this prayer that I was articulating with no small amount of anger.

Then, randomly, I pulled out my laptop (not even thinking about it – and certainly not trying to distract myself: I was really involved in [f]laying my heart [out there]). My family has a blog that we all write entries on – and I noted that my dad had posted this video a funny little bit from the Gospel Bill episodes I used to watch as a kid. I watched that video for ages growing up: and as I watched it this afternoon, my stewing prayer stopped – and I just started crying. Even on the other video he posted, my brother can be seen in 0:41. And as I cried, I remembered the innocence and joy I used to appreciate as a child: the feeling of no weight upon my shoulders, the feeling of peace, knowing that my dad and mom were my entire protection (and protect me they did).

Rejoice in the Lord. Again, I say: rejoice!
Rejoice in the Lord. Again, I say: rejoice!
And stir up the gifts – way down deep in you!

Can I say I’m afraid? It’s so. And as I mused over those songs, the Lord impressed upon my heart: Son, rejoice in me. No huge voice. No real revelation. Just the invocation for one response: joy. Joy.

Rejoice.

Is today the end of the story? Is this world all that my faith has to offer? No. Do I have a faith? Is there a tomorrow for which all tears and worries will be forever lost and never needed for remembering? Yes.

So, rejoice. I thought over the past semester: Can I change the intensity? No. But, now, how must I respond? Do I honestly “thank God” for the feeling of being overwhelmed? Do I honestly attempt to rejoice when I’m being crushed? Do I honestly thank God when I don’t have a clue what I’m thanking him for – or how things are going to work out? Yes. Yes, I think so.

Beyond last semester: last year, the years before, the many years before, back to when I was very young – I have always been riddled with the fear that God is going to pass over me when he is listening and answering. Will God answer? Why would he care? Will God act? I have not thought God ignored me – ever, really. I’ve always felt that, if God was going to do anything, if he was going to act, he wasn’t going to act on my behalf: he wasn’t going to answer me: he was only going to pass by.

But the immediate applications of joy resonate, don’t they? If I rejoice, that means, even if things get harder, I must purpose to take joy: real joy. Not purpose to say “thank you” – while seething in anger. Not purpose to patronize God. Not purpose to pay lip service to a God who wants us to think unrealistic thoughts about a jagged present. If joy is going to be real, it means a focus on something else. It means real time existence in this world, for another. If I’m going to heal from this anger, I will only do it by washing myself in… the gospel.

I was interrupted by Block’s lecture – and then, on my way to dinner afterward, I pulled out my iPod to listen to some tunes. Jason Morant’s “I Will Run.” –And quickly realized that my earphones had broken. Somehow. This would be the second set of earphones that had broken. These, in fact, were the reserve pair that were brand new from an iPod I’d purchased forever ago. My other pair, which came at the cost of $100, played their last tune the other day after two years of good service to me. And now, randomly, pair #2 was saying “goodbye.”

I saw a fork just ahead. Either I take my earphones and throw them against the wall, muttering pejorative language, mixed with a healthy sauce of unChristian language - or… The sound of it made me want to vomit and shout out loud. …Or, I rejoice.

So, I thanked God for the times I did get to use the earphones. The times when I did get a chance to listen the music. Thanked him for writing new songs in my heart. Thanked him for the rain and the weather which was beautiful.

And, suddenly, I well-spring of thanks came out. Thank you for not having answered my prayers on the guitar. I don’t know why you haven’t, but you must have a reason that’s quite pleasing. Thank you for pushing me beyond my bounds in the grad school. Thanks for putting me in a program that exposes and rests upon all of my deepest fears and greatest emotional and physiological weaknesses. Thank you for calling me to prayer during a time where it needed to cost me something – and it will only continue to cost me something.

Joy must mean freedom from the world. Transcendence. I’d never realized how much I’d idolized certain things. Would I take my music – my iPod, my 7-years of Jars of Clay collections, my own songs – and would I throw them into the sea if asked? Would I hesitate? Would I put a match to my journals – and throw my computer out the window? Would I gladly thank God for putting a song in my heart – and trust him to provide a guitar to borrow at every venue? Would I rejoice if my hands got crushed – and my body was overcome with obesity or some sort of skin disease?

Oh, God! Do make it so…

Today was Day 1 of my 30-day prayer journey. I had anticipated getting up at 6AM for a good hour of praying, but that didn’t happen. At all.

After class, my heart was tired – and my body, worn. I made my way over to the library, checked out a study room, and quickly found myself alone for 1 hour of prayer. Glad to be alone.

I laid my backpack down, grabbed my journal, my Bible, and an extra to-do notebook (in case something came up in my mind I needed to get to later). It was intimidating. My entire mind thinking: What will I find, in all this – these next 30 days? The feeling of question, defilement, quiet, and slight annoyance – time alone, just to hide behind my Savior’s arms. Naked, and mostly ashamed – seeking to hide behind his strength.

I don’t feel ready to do this. I don’t feel able to start it. And I don’t feel like I have the patience, virtue, or depth for this to make any difference anyway. My mind was rushing through those thoughts in rapid movement. I grabbed my notebook and prayed for mercy. And immediately began writing down all of my “requests.” Maybe, I can get onto really praying if I know what I’m needing to lift up, and if I can drain my mind, I can get it off my chest to get onto the real goodness. So I wrote and wrote. And wrote.

+Personal. +School. +Family. +GEBC. +School Friends. +Rachel. So on… Categories, filled with snippet meanings, answers. Questions. Misunderstandings. Bewilderment. Hope. Anger. Desire. My own prayer requests, and three pages later, I was finished. At least, for now. Here’s a sampling I wrote, in blue…

Needs.

+ Guitar – New one.

+ Finances – $_____ in acct.

+ School.

- Remove sense of foreboding.
- Restore my confidence in God’s ability to help me.
- Grant me trust that he will salve my sadness, disappointment, and identity if I don’t pass.
- Give me grace to do the work.
- Continued aid in reading.
- Wise appropriation of time.
- Service to others to my own hurt.
- Papers: 1. Nations (OT Theo); 2. Davidic Line (ANE); 3. Creativity (OT Crit); 4. Memory & Cohesion (Hebrew)

+ Service (Worship)

- Tools to do the work.
- Energy to stick with it.
- Learning God’s view of worship.
- Open eyes to see God’s face.

So on. Those were my own.

I have so many needs. Gosh. Writing all this felt strangely therapeutic – and, yet, incomplete. I don’t know know what to do with these questions. I don’t know what to think of them. And the others, here unwritten, what am I to make of those? Do you really trust God to answer these? You’ve prayed for some of these things for years. And I wonder what God thinks of it when I come to him with so many things written on a paper – and all the things I forgot to write down, but needed to. I’ll start praying for finances and suddenly remember to pray that God will rescue me from my deep sadness whenever finances are shaky – thank him that finances don’t keep me from pursuing something, but ask for his healing from deep financial fears blistering my heart for these, now, three years. (God, the memory.) Or, what if I am too specific when I ask for a guitar? What if God doesn’t purchase Taylors?

My heart trembles: I deeply need a guitar, but I’m afraid of asking and getting a missionary-basket, crap guitar. Am I really supposed to pray as specifically as the ‘miracle stories’ are? “Ask God for all that’s on your heart!” I have: and my heart trembles. I feel that, with more honest prayer, must needs come a greater honesty with those around me. Should I share with my friends my need? What if I tell someone and am given a piece of crap? --How dare you be so specific with God! How dare you presume upon him like that! You ungrateful wretch. If he gives you a guitar and it’s not what you want, then you didn’t want what he was to give – you wanted only you. Wait. Is that true? I don’t know. I can’t imagine it being true: God’s answered some crazy requests throughout Biblical and church history. But I don’t have a grasp on it enough to refute my little ship being cast about by waves.

One thing I pray happens in this experience is a change of prayer theology: I don’t believe in prayer. I believe in it only when I’m praying for someone else. I see its efficacious nature in someone else. Not only are they encouraged then and there, but then you can be part of the answer. I pray for others and see their joy. I think of a story some time ago where I was part of the answer of someone else’s prayer. It was awesome – I thought, at the time. Since then, I’ve been only angry: Does God answer my prayers like he answers the prayer of that friend – or just some people? I could really use one of those miracle stories where someone randomly “has you on their mind” and sends you some gluttonous check. I’m not part of those stories. Why in the world would God not answer – and what is wrong with me that my theology is so jacked that I can’t see the stars, even in the clear sky?

When I finally stopped writing the prayer requests, I was shocked that I’d spent 45 minutes of my allotted hour. Fifteen minutes? Do I keep on praying? I couldn’t do it. Being a good steward of my time meant I needed to get onto other things. So I prayed, underlining the bits in Matthew: for your Father knows what you need before you ask him. And my heart resonated in Matthew’s “you Father who is in heaven,” “your Heavenly Father,” so I underlined: your father who is in secret. And your Father who sees in secret will reward you.

I do yearn for reward. I need blessing. What else do I have if I don’t drink water from his hand?

My mind laid over Ecclesiastes: let your words be few. I had only fifteen minutes at this point. Did I dare jam all this in? No.

So I prayed, at first trying to keep off the list and let it rest until tomorrow. But that’s where my heart is – how can I come to God with these cares and not care enough to bring them all the way? I made it halfway through the list, mostly, praying over the most important bits. When I got to the above part, beneath school, saying “Grant me trust…” I wrote, in red: Lock my identity into who you are – now. It’s going to be important to keep my trajectory correct to keep my identity in Christ now. And as I prayed about worship, I wrote: Remind them of our coming rest… I need it: I need to remind people in worship of who God is – and where we are going. We might be tired now: but rest is coming.

Then, I said, “Amen.” Feeling a bit uneasy, not exactly feeling like Pentecost. I’d prayed for 15 minutes, give or take. I had mused over the things most pressing on my heart, for myself and for others. I had yelped – even shed a tired tear. I said what was on my heart, and I did try to listen. At least it was honest. I guess. So, I grabbed my worldly goods, folded up my Bible and journal for tomorrow, and proceeded to continue with home work, school, conversations, and all that as best as I could, thinking, in the back of my mind:

Was this how it all started? My thirty-day journey began with a half-prayer and forty-five minutes of me lacing pages with blue and red ink, praying to God that something will transpire from this?