I couldn't do it. I contracted with myself to do it, and I couldn't do it.
I have this very old prejudice against televisions in the bedroom. Blame my parents. Or their parents. Come to think of it, no one even in my extended family has ever had televisions in their bedrooms. Maybe it's a weird Scotch-Irish/German American thing. I mean, we keep books in the bathroom. Why not TVs in the bedroom? But somehow it's a desecration. Beds are for reading in. (And other things, of course, if one is married. But even so, reading takes place in bed far more often than even that reportedly most enjoyable of activities. One doesn't need stamina to read a book for hours every night.) The television is an ugly, noisy, blue-light monstrous invader. Its place is in the living room where the whole family can gather around it (movies are for sharing, too). It belongs nowhere else.
The bedroom, in my family experience, has always been this sanctorum of privacy and quiet -- a place to go hide when the world, or even the rest of the house, becomes frustrating or threatening. A place to relax and let down all of the walls you keep rigidly in place outside of it. A place to find peace. A retreat, a haven.
Somehow quiet is critical to this concept. A TV is never quiet. Books are quiet. Books are friendly. Books engage the parts of your brain that allow you to forget, to escape, to become thoroughly absorbed in a different world and travel far away for awhile without any more movement than is occasionally required to adjust a pillow.
So, despite my stern decision to be like more people and lounge in bed with the TV blasting, I finished my movie in the living room, brushed my teeth, and crawled in bed with Bridget Jones.
I didn't make it to sleep by 10:00 either. I wasn't sleepy. Of course I am now, however, when my attention should be sharper and more focused. The perversity of the human body.
A funny thing has begun to happen. When I first started working a desk job where I had internet access anytime I wanted it, I wasted so much time surfing it was actually rather embarrassing. Now, though, I'm losing interest, and I'm trying to sort out why. I don't think I'm the only one, either -- over the years, the comments have dwindled, and so has my religious perusal of the blogs of every single person I might have met if only for five minutes at a party.
I think it's life. I know that for myself, I'm becoming increasingly hungry to live, to have my own life which totally occupies my attention, to be involved with people and not webpages. I'm impatient for that "real life" thing to take off -- I suppose it has to do with the post on "settling down" I wrote a month or so ago. I want to make roots. I want to be a part of what's happening around me. I want friendship and love and a home and all those domestic activities that seemed so boring when I was younger -- gardening, mowing the yard, painting the house. I want the miraculous beauty of ordinary life.
I'm working out how to get there. It won't require a husband, either, so no worries about interference with the New Deal re: dating. So I'm sorting things out. It's about time I came to life.
9 comments:
Sarah,
I stumbled upon your ‘blog a few weeks ago but, if asked, I don’t think I could explain how I got there. In all likelihood it was the result of aimlessly hopscotching through the web during a slow moment at work. In any case, when I’ve had a few moments from time-to-time recently, I’ve enjoyed perusing your archived entries and I wanted to tell you how much I’ve enjoyed your efforts.
There is a distinctive shade of dignified poignancy to your narratives that I’ve come to admire quite a bit, and the optimism you’ve shown in the face of near-constant discouragement with church-hunting and your search for a Christian church-family composed of believers in heart and deed, as well as in word has resonated with me. That, Sarah, is an arduous quest, but one that has been, ultimately, so very rewarding and sustaining.
After reading this post, I wanted to urge you not to be discouraged by the diminishing frequency of comments. Keep writing. I love the clarity and concision of your prose (it is what I hope my own would resemble, were I but a more enthusiastic writer), and your poetry is often beautiful and implicitly clear, and has shown a marked improvement over the life of your blog, if I can say so, somehow, without coming off as arrogant. I’m sure you’re not looking for notes.
Keep writing. Shrug off the rote and routine, and pursue insatiably the “real life” that you are so impatient for. The rejection of passivity, I think, is the first step toward crafting a meaningful life, a life that will bear good fruit. If the request of an admiring stranger, albeit a friendly, well-meaning one, bears any weight with you, then, please, keep writing.
And I, for my part, will keep reading.
Phil
Phil,
Wow -- thanks. Yours was one of those memorable encouragements I'll keep for rainy days.
I take no offense at being told my poetry has improved over the past three and a half years -- if it hadn't, I'd have to retire! I'm glad for the observation, in fact -- my style has changed here and there, and I'm pleased to hear it's for the better.
I think writing is something I will never be able not to do, even if it means heaving my words into a void. Thanks, too, for your continuing readership. It's heartening to know the void hasn't arrived yet.
Here's to real life, the rejection of passivity, and the infusion of the extra into the ordinary!
Cheers,
Sarah
I’ll drink to that. Slàinte Mhath!
And I concur: bedrooms should be bastions from the world, places to go and cloister oneself away from the slings and arrows, conducive to introspection and spiritual refreshment, and technology has no place in them. That being said, if a sundial was capable of rousing me in the morning, I could be rid of this Alarm Clock from Hell.
It seems the solution is to drag your bed into the living room. Then you would be free to enjoy the flickering opiate-box while comfortably ensconced in your down comforter, and you wouldn’t have to violate the sanctity of the bedroom (so to speak). Also, if you’re a Die Hard fan (and who in their right mind wouldn’t be?), I’d unreservedly recommend The Boondock Saints.
So.
Flippin’.
Good.
Admittedly, there is one fleeting moment with which the cat-lover in you may take umbrage, but it’s entertaining as all get-out.
In any case, I’m glad I could provide you with some measure of encouragement. I’ve come to appreciate the way God uses small things, unlooked for, to bolster us in so many ways. I’m also glad that you’ll continue to write. I’m an insatiable reader, though a reluctant writer, and without wordsmiths such as you, my font of inspiration would run dry.
I hope the summer over there is ripening nicely,
Phil
Oh how I wish I knew Irish. :)
I too am a hater of the alarm clock. First, the glare of the digital numbers. Who wants to look at that in the wee hours of the morning? It reminds you relentlessly that you are awake when you'd rather be asleep. I also completely fail to understand the good people who can stand to have a green-numbered clock -- the glare is pointed and loud, if light can be loud; it's downright rude. I go with red because the alarm clock is a necessary evil and the light is at least softer. I also have it turned directly away from the bedside.
I further do not believe in the snooze button. Fortunately, as noted in my profile, I have an all-natural backup: a hungry cat. He won't let me sleep in even on Saturdays, bless his furry little hide. And his voice is very, very...motivating. Most times I'll do almost anything he wants if it gets him to shut up. (Being a cat, he takes calculating advantage of this. But I maintain that he's in no way spoiled.)
Alack and alas, my bed was almost too large to fit into my room dismantled, and my house gives "tiny" a whole new denotation, thus rendering daily rearrangement sadly impossible, though your solution seems to me ideal. (Couldn't someone invent a working transporter? I'd like to "beam" things all over the place without having to navigate corners and drop things on my feet. I'd also never be late for work.) My method of bringing bedroom comfort into the living room is a really big easy chair with ottoman, and a positively opulent hand-knitted wool blanket the size of a bedspread into which I can burrow, wrap, and sink all at the same time. A make-do, imperfect solution for a make-do, imperfect world.
I'll certainly have to add Boondock Saints to my queue -- yours is the fourth recommendation I've received recently, which is usually a sign that I need to watch it. Nothing like a good action flick.
I hope you have found encouragement in your own "church search" -- my journey to a certain degree of satisfaction was difficult to the point of ridiculousness, and I know I'm not the only one who has found it so. Worth the effort, though, in every way, if only because I learned so much.
I'm curious as to your own search. I've heard a lot of stories over the past four years (well, eight if you want to take college into account), and I keep trying to explain to folks of my parental generation what makes finding a "church home" so difficult to people our age. I can never explain it to them satisfactorily.
Spring is slow in Michigan. Or rather, spring is bipolar in Michigan. I'd love to get the weather in for counseling. We've been having waves of nice almost-summery heat for a few days, inevitably followed by a few days of early March. I believe this will be the first summer since I was born where I'll have to wear sweaters and jackets in June.
However, the green things are unfurling their verdure as they ought, and there is strength to the sunshine which revitalizes the soul, so a gal can't complain -- particularly if she has, as I have, complained loudly over the past three springs that the season is far too quick in the Midwest. I am amusedly eating my words.
I hope your movement toward summer is faster.
Amen to the divine manifest in the small things! I'm positive there's a wonderful line that ties into this idea in "Four Quartets," but I have left my copy at home.
Thanks again for your encouragement and readership. I'll mention Boondock Saints once I've seen it.
Cheers!
Sarah
I think we’ll have to agree to disagree: the snooze button is civilization…
That nine (why nine?) minutes of half-sleep is a vital segue between the blissful land of Nod and the bleary-eyed stupor of the morning and the mocking devil-sun. I’m a slow starter, to say the least.
I don’t mind the glow of the numbers. It’s the banshee-shriek of the alarm that gets me riled. Engineering the most annoying sound in the world must have been a pretty interesting assignment, though (think Lloyd in Dumb and Dumber). Watching the test group’s reactions through the one-way mirror would have been entertaining to no end, I’m sure. A submarine klaxon would be more subtle.
So, your bed is too big to get through the door. There are much worse problems to have. A compromise, albeit a tacky one, would be a futon or a pull-out, but nothing screams “college” like lumpy convertible furniture (with the possible exception of a floral-print sofa with a bed sheet draped over it). A bean-bag chair might be nice, but then you’d have to take up disco and redecorate with earth tones. All things considered, your easy chair/ottoman duo is probably the way to go.
Are you talking about a “Beam me up, Scotty” Star Trek type transporter? That would be amazing. You run the risk of arriving places all glittery, but you’d never have to use a public restroom again. Don’t be first in line to purchase one, though. You might end up needing to be stretched like Mike Teavee.
______________________
I'll insert a break here. When I started to answer your question about my church search and the relationship the church has with people of our generation, my response turned into an essay. So, I've decided to included it as a separate response.
______________________
Summer in California, at least my part of California, comes at first in fits and spurts. The sunshine and warmth advance and retreat, yielding ground to the dusty raindrops of the lazy, pregnant summer thunderclouds before reclaiming it with a barrage of dazzling light. It will be oppressively hot here in a few weeks, but for now this is the best time of the season, a time for Saturday naps under a single sheet with the fan on high, while the fat drops of rain pepper the roof.
Life is good.
I wish you all the best,
Phil
Ok, you asked, and when I got to thinking about it, my thoughts started cascading forth. I haven't read it and it my ramble or vear towards incoherence, so let me apologize in advance.
________________
As far as the Quest for a Church to call Home goes, mine reads a bit like a clichéd bildungsroman, but I’ll endeavor to give you the short version: Mine has always been a small church type of family, and when we moved to the medium-sized town where my folks still live, our family adopted a tiny, recently-planted non-denominational church with an amazing pastor but a oddly distributed population, in terms of age. There were lots of sets of parents of roughly the same age as mine, but of all the kids there, my two younger brothers and I were the only ones older than mid-elementary school age. Two of us were in high school, and the third was completing junior high.
The three of us have a tendency to travel in a clannish pack as it is, and the fact that we had no real peers there tended to make us very conspicuous. Because none of the other parents had dealt with teenagers of their own, we cultivated a reputation of being the rebellious, loud-music playing, Mohawk sporting, mischievous ne’er-do-wells. Admittedly, some of this was grounded in truth, and we tended to embrace the projected persona, but the three of us also assumed the roles that would have gone to the youth group in any church with a more typical demographical cross-section: we helped set up and tear down at events and functions, we assisted when any of the older brethren needed help with their yards, or moving, or what-have-you. The three of us even did three hours of improv every year at the annual all-church campout (we tend to play off of each other very effectively, and when we team with our father to complete the ‘hive-mind,’ the results are dumbfounding. We’re a close family). The church members would speak of “the three brothers,” and the connotations of that collective moniker were difficult for any of us to shake.
Fast-forward to college. I moved away to attend a five-year program at a secular university, and as seems to be so frequently the case, I began to ignore God. I did fairly well at maintaining my moral integrity (relatively speaking) and holding true to the legislative tenants of Christianity, but in no way was I pursuing a relationship with Him with any kind of urgency, and I didn’t hunger for spiritual food. I was being neither salt nor light. Eventually I reached a kind of spiritual nadir, and God, having broken me, began to reveal Himself to me in a myriad of ways. I began to see Him at work, at school, at home with my roommates, and in people I met, but my most profound epiphanies came when I began to observe the depravity and baseness of people who lived as though God did not exist and the utter lack of joy in their lives (and I’m not speaking of ‘fun’ or ‘sensuality’ here, but of unsullied, genuine joy).
With a newfound realization of God’s overwhelming importance and a hunger to know Him, I moved to a town near my parents and returned to my old church. Unfortunately, the niche I occupied when I left was still there when I returned. My brothers and I were the only college or young-adult aged people there, and when I tried to take on a more responsible role in the church, it proved difficult to operate under the goof-off stigma that was still attached to us. I served as the junior high youth leader for a while, but I grew so frustrated that I soon stepped down. The church seemed to operate in a bubble and gave no thought to the practical preparation of the youth towards the time when they would leave the nest, so to speak, and face the overwhelmingly secular reality of life. I vowed to be completely honest with my kids, and I began to butt heads with some of the parents who didn’t like the type of answers I gave to their children’s questions. “They don’t need to be hearing that type of stuff,” they told me ad nauseam, and I disagreed. I posit that the church should be preparing its children for the real world, and the acknowledgement of the ugly and sordid components of life in a fallen world is a vital part of this.
In any case, this kicked off a quest for a church that seemed to mirror your own in terms of discouragement and disillusionment. I went through several residences and several jobs, and numerous churches, and never really (until relatively recently) found one where the teachings seemed to mesh with the attitudes of the body. It seems that the post-modern search for truth in which many of our generation are embroiled still begs the question of what, at the most basic and distilled level, is actually true.
We seem, for a great part, to be a generation of Christians who believes in God not because it is the social norm, because that is no longer the case, and not because our parents told us to, though that might have been the case, but because God has revealed Himself to us in a very visceral and frequently painful manner. Many of us have rejected God and suffered in our divorce from Him. Those that did not come from a Christian background have witnessed so much depravity and suffered so much unhappiness and unfulfillment that they began to realize that, much as “cold” is simply the absence of heat, evil and sin is the absence of God. Even those who grew up couched in the church and who have never overtly rejected God have observed society’s downward spiral and we seem to all have come to the same realization and to accept the same truth: God is real.
From there, the next step has been the attempt to accurately discern who God is, not as a judge or a maker of rules, but as a personality that can be known and related to and communicated with (yes, I’m ending this sentence with a preposition). This step is a difficult one. We are a cynical bunch, wary of scams, ulterior motives, disingenuousness and being “sold” an idea, and these traits are not necessarily completely negative because they manifest themselves in a studied attention to detail and an algorithmic approach toward reevaluation of traditions and tenants. What this boils down to is that we are finding truth in the character of God and Jesus as revealed to us in the Word and, as we delve deeper into Scripture, we are coming to the realization that the attitude of the contemporary church, regardless of denomination, does not completely jive with God’s message.
The church, it seems, has a marked propensity toward condemning the sinner instead of the sin. Homosexuality provides me with an easy example, but almost any issue prevalent in modern culture could serve as well (e.g. alcoholism, promiscuity, cohabitation, drug abuse, pornography addiction). Many of us have homosexual friends, and they are often dear and close friends (There are a multitude of reasons for the proliferation of homosexual behavior and it’s growing foothold in everyday society, I think, but I’m not going to go into them here. This has already become an essay) and frequently “better people” than many who purport to be Christians. Our generation of Christians sees homosexuality as a sin (hopefully), but not an unforgivable one from which repentance, with God’s help, is impossible. The fact that the traditional church is so quick to label our homosexual friends, and homosexuals in general, as “enemies” or view them as undesirables is a trait so dissimilar to any characteristic of Jesus’ that it is ludicrous, and immediately off-putting to anyone who abhors hypocrisy, which seems to be a hallmark of our generation.
The reality of it is, and this is what the church has failed to acknowledge, is that homosexuality is simply a manifestation of the sin that runs rampant in a fallen world, and is, at its roots, no different than any other sin. It is the Old Nature, the arrogant and rebellious nature of man at his most base, rearing its head, and to dismiss these people as being unworthy or beyond hope of salvation is to deny the omnipotence and infallibility of God The pastor of a friend’s church (not my adopted church, but one very similar in doctrine, focus and conviction), told me of a conversation he had with a man he met one day who, when he learned that Dave was a pastor, professed to be a Christian himself. They were comparing their respective churches, when the man asked, “You don’t have any fags in your church, do you?”
To which Dave replied, emphatically, “I certainly hope so.”
This, so beautifully and simply illustrated, is the distinction between the traditional church, which our generation has rejected, and the church that we are searching for. We, as a generation, do not want a church or a god that would accept us while rejecting our friends and others who are in no discernable way different then we are. We don’t want a church that preaches “Love thy neighbor,” but is reluctant to embrace a visitor. Instead, we are searching for a church whose words are reiterated in its deeds, and whose doctrine is based on the character of God and Christ as He has revealed Himself to us in His Word.
I finally found such a church, and it is wonderful. It is unique in that its pastors and staff are men and women of our generation who were fed up with the church for the same reasons we are and decided to attend seminary and plant the type of church that they were looking for, a church with a heart for the young, the single, the lost, the new families and those searching for truth but not finding it in the secular world. The board of elders is composed of seasoned spiritual warriors and long-time leaders and family men, but, for the most part, the staff and congregation skews very young. The doctrine is based, firstly and lastly, on Scripture and worshiping and serving there has made me feel close to God when everything else in my life was making me feel far from Him. I'm supremely happy here, and I pray that you have found, or will soon find the same happiness.
If the snooze button is civilization, pack me off to the bush.
The screech of the buzzer is bad enough once (though, infuriatingly, far preferable to the blaring of some horrible pop song which will inevitably take up residence in my head on continuous loop for the rest of the day), let alone once every nine/ten/eleven minutes. Yargh. If I'm going to snatch a little more shut-eye before admitting to the arrival of morning, I'd like it to be an unbroken forty minutes, rather than four ten-minute intervals shattered by that hideous beeping.
Which is why I set the alarm at least forty minutes earlier than I actually HAVE to be awake -- once upon a time I was a morning person, and someday I'd like to return to it, so I always give myself the opportunity, while acknowledging that my free will probably will go toward giving me a little more sleep. (Also one of the luxuries of living three and a half minutes' drive from work.)
I completely agree about lumpy convertible furniture -- there's no point of my life to which I'd like to return, although I endeavored to enjoy each phase to its fullest, so college isn't something I want to advertise anymore. (Another reason why I decided not to go on in my education -- I can't decipher all of the reasons, and I certainly have nothing against the idea, or those who pursue it; it just didn't fit. I wanted my real life to start.) Bean bag chairs, in addition to having nowhere to live but piled awwardly in corners, tend to say "basement" to me. (I don't mind earth tones; I tend to prefer greens, brightened up with rich reds; but I can't say as I'd like a disco theme, igh.) Which, considering the sort of hole-ish nature of my small and dank rented house, might not be out of place. However, the floor space is negligible, so easy chair and ottoman are the best of all possible worlds within my own little world.
Oh, a "Beam me up, Scotty" device would be my own heaven on earth -- and I've never minded looking a little glittery and ethereal. I would prudentially wait until lots of people had purchased and tried them, though (not least because I'd have to wait to afford one), else run the risk of needing a stretching...or winding up leaving bits of me behind and arriving without my ears, like Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.
As for your bildungsroman regarding church...my earliest church experiences were quite the opposite of yours -- I was one of dozens of children my age in the church into which I was born, which was great, a sort of commune-esque Sunday environment at the local YMCA where we set up camp, where we got to run around and play on all the verboten equipment evading the furious grasp of one of the older women who took it upon herself to keep us in line. Adolescence brought a different church and a different (far more oppressive) environment, which I've blogged about so often before I won't return to it; it's in the past anyway; suffice it to say, however, that with the sort of extremely fundamentalist church atmosphere, and the thoroughly secular realm of my high school, I fit the "Bible-thumpin' Baptist" bill pretty well -- though with a sort of conscientious hatred of making people feel badly.
My college was private and Christian, nauseatingly so, and I found myself facing all the Christian stereotypes I'd never, till then, understood -- and then many of the reasons why the world hates Christians made disturbing sense. My reaction was indignation, then anger, then rage -- toward Christians. It was in this period that I began, also, to understand the all-consuming love of God, because a lot of what I was reacting against (I can end phrases with prepositions too!) was the judgmental, unloving, God-hates-you theology with which I'd been inundated since my early teens. Ironically, I could hear it and hear it and hear it against myself without bothering too much; but when the enormously fundamental student body singled out people with multiple body piercings/tattoes, smokers, and homosexuals to isolate and judge, I couldn't stand it. In the not being able to stand the bad theology of the poor treatment of others, I came to understand I had to apply the same principle to myself.
It was then, too, that I suffered the hardest test and the greatest losses of my life, which slammed me face down onto the rock, and I had to begin taking a closer look at that rock. Many good things came out of it, and in those, as well as the suffering, I came to a deeper understanding of our profoundly loving God. Like you, then, I found myself back to the very bare, essential basics -- Christ, and the Gospel, and the necessity of love -- and separated myself from any one body of believers while I tried to puzzle out some of what that meant, and in what kind of niche I belonged.
I detest the judgmentality of most churched attitudes toward the people they love to call lost. You're absolutely right about our generation hating hypocrisy. My very closest friends do not profess the faith; nor does my beloved sister; and yet in them and from them I receive a significant portion of the manifest love of Christ. And I absolutely hate when people say, What a wonderful ministry for you to have with such people. I want to shout, They minister to ME! That's the nature of friendship, not an agenda!
What you have to say about homosexuality resonates with me as well -- one of my very dearest friends is gay, and anyone would be hard pressed to find a kinder or gentler soul. What churched attitudes fail to recognize is that "there is no distinction, for ALL have sinned and fall short of the glory of God," and therefore it's not even possible to poke sticks or point fingers. I think, too, that one of the conclusions of those of our generation who have espoused Christ is to leave people who don't alone. Love them, get to know them, befriend and be befriended by them, but for love's sake don't push. A Christian (and here I mean your average layman, not someone in the pastorate or the clergy) only has real authority to condemn actions or behaviors in two cases: 1.) if the "sinner" asks for the believer's advice or opinion, or really needs to hear it (gently), and 2.) if the "sinner" is a Christian already, and thus bound by the same moral code. Standing from a pulpit with bulging veins shouting at an entire group of people that they're going to hell is no way to show them the love they can expect from Christ, if we're his representatives. Such behavior is not only repugnant, but wrong. In fact, the people who felt the lash of Jesus' judgment during his time on earth were the very self-righteous religious leaders that most Christians today have become.
I'm so glad you've found the kind of church you've been looking for. I've arrived...somewhere. It's not what I had in mind, exactly, but for the first time I find myself happy in my faith -- and full of joy. I have a place to serve, where in my introversion and reserve I don't have to talk to many people very often, and still do something practical. (I cantor.) I love where I am, love the words and the meaning, and even the people, although I don't know them terribly well.
Thank you for sharing your story. It's interesting how people our age come from all kinds of backgrounds and yet arrive at similar places (though never the actual goal, which is actually a great thing -- we're always in process). I know every generation attempts to improve on what the previous generation has done, and I think ours has the potential for a lot of amazing impact on our world, particularly with the focus on the genuine which we've noted earlier. I'm excited to see what our age group can do.
I wish you all the best in return, Phil!
Sarah
P.S. You used "nadir." That gives you a stockpile of bonus points for wordsmithery in my book. What a fabulous word.
Heh...thanks. In that case, I'd like to cash in my stockpiled bonus points in the hopes that they will counter the penalty points I accrued when I used the wrong form of "its" (one of my pet peeves- that'll teach me to throw stones), along with a couple of typos.
Hopefully I come out close to even.
LOL...I wasn't going to comment on the "its." I'm glad I'm not the only one for whom this peeve is pet. (Such a pet, in fact, that I think it has its own belled collar and a silver engraved food dish with a place at the dining room table where it reclines in spoiled luxury.)
I'd say you come out at least even.
My biggest writing sin is, ridiculously, subject-predicate agreement, particularly the use of "is" instead of "are." Absurd.
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