Last Post Ever… sort of
Since I already have hosting at my disposal, I’ve decided to say goodbye to wordpress.com and move my blog elsewhere. I imported all the old information, so the old stuff can be found at the new site, including your comments. Anyway go here from now on http://justin.blackbirdpress.org/
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First story up and running
I claimed I probably wouldn’t do anything until the semester ended, but I couldn’t help myself. Head over to blackbirdpress.org more updates will probably come shortly.
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blackbirdpress.org
I bought the domain and hosting. It’s now up, though there’s nothing much there. I installed wordpress and a nice starting theme, if you want to take a look. The colors need to change, and maybe some other little customizations… but I like the theme in general.
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Tags: blog, Christian, press, Underground
The Blackbird Press
Some of you know I ran an underground paper at SAU known as The Blackbird Press. It was sort of a witty, artsy look at SAU and American Christian culture. It died when I ran out of money to print it, though it had quite a few readers.
It’s official, and by official I mean I decided: The Blackbird will return after college as a wordpress-based blog/site with multiple authors. I’d like to get started before the semester ends, but I doubt it will happen; my life is busy. Until then, I’m be scheming again. So for now this site is just being used for brainstorming. and probably occasional updates about how things are going.
So, what I need to address for now is what the focus of the new Blackbird will be. I have two audiences in mind. First is Christian intellectuals with a sense of humor and an appreciation for the arts. The second is people who may be somewhat interested in Christ, but generally unimpressed with “the church”, especially mainstream evangelicalism. There are plenty of those especially in our generation because, let’s face it, Christians can be pretty dumb. The site would be very critical of pop-Christian lamos like Joel Olsteen.
There’s a big hole on the internet where the blackbird belongs. Why do I say that? Maybe because every Christian site is a tasteless baby-blue mess from the 90s, which looks like it was made by 60 year old women who watch the 700 Club and collect precious moments figurines. If you don’t believe me, google “Christian” or “Christian blog” and look around.
I’m trying to decide exactly what should be on the site. So far there will be at least two reoccurring column-type things:
The Naysayer
Straight from the paper blackbird, The Naysayer usually goes after something popular/praised and explains why it’s dumb in a witty rant. For example, the last one before the paper explained why John Eldridge books are lame.
Red Onion Special
The section dedicated to satire, comprised of untrue articles. The name is a nod to America’s Finest News Source
You’ll notice that both of these are negative and/or sarcastic. We need some serious, classy stuff as well, but I’m not sure what yet. I’d like to deal with tough questions, and challenge some aspects of mainstream Christianity. For example: i went to a Christian high school where a girl could get kicked out for getting pregnant. So, why are Christians booting out the people who need them the most? Makes no sense to me. Churches need to start being real and quit worrying about their pristine images.
Anyway, any ideas for the site and its flavor? What would make you want to read the site? Hint: you’re supposed to do me a favor and comment on this.
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Tags: blog, Christian, press, Underground
Dreams
This post will be more weird than usual, but I’m out of practice so it’s better than nothing.
Something is wrong with my subconscious. Not much is bothering me that I can make any sense of. Normally, I never have nightmares. In fact I’ve sometimes prided myself in being nearly immune to nightmares–either I don’t remember my dreams, or my dreams are almost universally pleasant. Nice, right?
But the past couple of days when I sleep, or even nap, all I have is vivid nightmares. Strange images and situations always involving two or more of the following elements: some kind of horrible creatures, disease, human blood, darkness, decay or death. And strangely, when I wake up I don’t want to get out of bed so I can forget the nightmare. No motivation; I just want to go back to sleep. I’m also depressed and have headaches. Not much appetite either. Someone said “are you alright?” and I said yes (that was you, Kasie). I think that’s the first time I blatantly lied in a long time. It was just an automatic response, like most people do I guess, because I didn’t want to explain what I don’t understand. Because she would have asked why and I wouldn’t have had a good reason.
It’s very bizarre, but it’s only been in the last 48 hours or so. Hopefully things will return to normal soon.
But more importantly, amidst this, while I’m awake, I have a different image in my head. A more beautiful one, though I can’t articulate what’s beautiful about it. Maybe I’m just insane, but I want to believe it has some significance. In any case it won’t leave my head. It feels more like remembering than making something up.
It’s a field of white snow, and it’s snowing softly in big, round chunks. There’s a young boy there, perhaps 8 or so. Brown eyes and straight, dark hair. He’s wearing a wool coat a little too big for him and is missing one button. Boots and a black scarf. No hat. Serious expression on his face. In front of him is a smeared pile of ashes in the snow. Something was burned there, but it’s all gone now. He has soot on his little fingers. He is alone for the moment, but someone is nearby. There is no sound.
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Tags: dreams, ideas, nightmare
Aiden
This is my first post all semester, for some reason. I won’t bother with excuses. But here’s what I’m working on right now: a play, probably short, starring a mean 17-year-0ld named Aiden who is on a quest to find bigfoot. Here’s the plot as I’ve outlined it so far:
ACT I
Aiden’s family returns home and questions him about not going to church. Aiden is busy studying an alleged photograph of bigfoot.
Dad asks Aiden to go with him to a monument called “Carhenge,” and tries to persuade him by claiming he’s dying.
Elie declares that she’s going to use up some of these lemons selling lemonade. She wants help with writing an advertisement for a lemonade stand (she’s dyslexic), and Aiden tells her to get lost. X, also in the room, asks Aiden why they have so many lemons. Aiden explains that his parents meant to plant an orange tree but it turned out to grow lemons.
Aiden plans to leave on a train to investigate bigfoot for himself, but first he needs money for a train ticket (dramatic question).
ACT II
Mother bakes cookies and no one eats them.
Elie paints a loch ness monster. Aiden makes fun of her and thinks it’s a cow.
Aiden and Elie run into Doomsayer, who claims the world is going to end in 2012. Aiden says he doesn’t care and reveals his somewhat nihilistic philosophy. Later, to Elie, he says he does not know if he actually believes his own words.
Aiden sees that Elie has started “Sasquatch’s lemonade stand”, using the monster she was painting as a sign.
Aiden gets in some sort of argument with Elie about how he wants to be left alone. Afterward, he cooks Elie’s fish, antagonizing her out of rage.
Elie reveals that she has been saving the money from the lemonade stand to help Aiden buy his train ticket.
Aiden guiltily accepts the money and gets on the train. On the train, he has a conversation with one of the passengers that persuades him to go back home. When his stop comes, he does not get off.
ACT III
Aiden walks back in, hugs Elie (or some other small gesture), sits next to dad and reluctantly agrees to go to carhenge.
Act 2 needs a lot of work. I also need to work on combining scenes and helping them to flow together… I seem to have the trouble of thinking about it too much like a film, where too many shots can be spliced together. I want to make as much of the plot as possible occur in a single room, and have as few stage directions as possible. It’s a chance to practice my dialogue skills. Here’s the dialog fragments I’ve written so far.
SCENE 1
(In a small white kitchen. There is a large bowl full of lemons on the kitchen table. Aiden is sitting at a table examining a photograph. A door opens)
Aiden: how was church?
Mom: How was it? It was the house of God.
Dad: Why weren’t you there?
Aiden: didn’t feel like it.
Elie: How come? You never come anymore.
Aiden: Boring.
Mom: Boring? God was there.
Aiden: God’s boring.
Mom (to dad): listen to our son.
(Dad shrugs. Aiden looks back at his photograph, and Elie looks over his shoulder)
Elie: what’s that?
Aiden: evidence. See that dark spot?
Elie: looks like a smudge.
Aiden: It’s not a smudge. It’s a sasquatch.
Elie: What’s a sass-kwach?
Aiden: You know, bigfoot. Probably the missing link between monkeys and humans. There’s been a sighting.
Dad (walking in): A sighting of what?
Aiden: A sasquatch.
Dad (leaning over): Looks like a smudge.
PAINTING
(Elie is at a table painting something. Aiden walks in.)
Aiden: Nice cow, Elie.
Elie: It’s not a cow.
Aiden: Then what is it?
Elie: You’ll find out when I’m finished.
Aiden: It even has utters.
Elie: Shut up.
LEMONADE STAND
A: What’s this?
E: I’m an entrepreneur.
Aiden: You don’t even know what that means.
E: Uh-huh! I Learned it today.
A: (walks closer) Nessie’s lemonade stand?
Elie: You were talking about the loch ness monster and I thought it was cool. Don’t you think my sign is cute?
A: The Loch Ness Monster isn’t supposed to be cute. It’s supposed to be scary and mysterious. Besides, you can’t name a lemonade stand after Nessie. People are going to think it tastes like a swamp.
E: It tastes delicious.
A: That’s not the point.
X: Nessie’s Lemonade stand, huh?
E: Yup.
X: Cute sign. How much?
E: 75 cents.
(X pays, drinks cup)
X: Pretty good.
RESEARCHING (opening?)
Elie walks in.
Elie: even the dogs hate me now.
Aiden: what are you whining about?
Elie: (holding a book) Aiden, I can’t understand this. Can you help me?
Aiden: Why? I’m busy.
Elie: No you aren’t.
Aiden: Yes I am. Get lost.
Elie: what are you doing?
Aiden: Researching.
Elie: Researching what?
Aiden: What do you care? Go away.
Elie: Why do you care if I care? Just tell me.
Aiden: Alright, I’m researching Nessie.
Elie: Who’s Nessie?
Aiden: You know, the loch-ness monster.
Elie: But that’s not real, right?
Aiden: That’s what you think.
Elie: you’re crazy, Aiden.
Aiden: You’re stupid, Elie.
Elie: Am not.
Aiden: Mhm. And you’re adopted.
Elie: Nuh-uh!
Aiden: Oh yeah? Ask mom.
(Elie runs off)
Aiden: (to himself) success.
ADOPTED (alternate)
Elie: You make the family look bad.
Aiden: You mean I make you look stupid. You, not the family.
Elie: I’m part of the family.
Aiden: You’re adopted.
Elie: What?
Aiden: You’re adopted. Your real family left you in a dumpster somewhere.
Elie: You’re lying.
Aiden: No I’m not. Ask mom.
Elie: Mom, am I adopted?
Mom: Of course not, Elie. Who told you that?
LEMONS
X: Why are there so many lemons?
Aiden: Are referring to this obnoxious bowl or are you looking for a theodocy?
X: What? The first one.
Aiden: When my parents first bought this house, they bought some seeds that were supposed to grow tangerines, but instead it grew a lemon tree. They’re sour as hell, too.
X: Hmm. but tangerines can’t grow lemons. That’s not possible.
Aiden: Mhm. I guess that orange was some kind of freak of nature. It’s sort of like a miracle, only it sucks.
CARHENGE, dying
Dad: Aiden, we should go to Carhenge this weekend. You and I.
Aiden: Carhenge? What the hell is that?
Dad: It’s like stonehenge, only it’s made entirely of cars. It’s in Nebraska. We should go.
Aiden: Sounds stupid.
Dad: I’m dying, son.
Aiden: No shit. What does that have to do with some rediculous monument in the middle of nowhere?
Mom: (offstage) Don’t use that word.
Dad: dying?
Mom: The S word.
Aiden: Shit?
Mom: stop it.
Aiden: fine. (pause)
Aiden: It’s your own damn fault, you know.
Dad: What?
Aiden: That you’re dying. If you really are, that is. Are you?
Dad: I don’t know.
Aiden: (pause) Well I’ve got sh– stuff to do.
Aiden: the most defining feature of human existence is boredom.
Mom: I made cookies. (somewhere earlier in the play)
COOKIES
Mom: How come nobody ate my cookies? There’s not anything wrong with them, is there?
Dad: They were good.
Elie: Yeah, mom. I’m just not very hungry.
Mom: Aiden?
Aiden: What?
Mom: did you like the cookies?
Aiden: they were alright.
Mom: they were too hard, weren’t they? You all didn’t like them.
Aiden: you are pathetic, you know that, mother? Your self-esteem is all wrapped up in your cookies. It’s absurd.
Mom: I just wanted to make something nice…
Aiden: (knocks over tray) bullshit.
Elie: Aiden!
Mom: Don’t use that word.
Aiden: Stop trying to win everyone’s affections with baked goods and shit. Try having a personality.
Dad: (not moving from couch) don’t disrespect your mother, Aiden.
ELIE’S FISH
Elie: I got a fish today. Did you see my fish?
Aiden: I hate fish.
Elie: I named him Martie.
Aiden: How do you even know it’s a him?
Elie: I don’t know.
Aiden: You are so stupid.
Elie: how do you tell?
Aiden: because everything you say is stupid.
Elie: No, I mean how do you tell if a fish is a boy or a girl?
Aiden: Oh. I don’t know either.
Elie: (laughs) then I guess you’re stupid, too.
(Aiden turns away and sighs)
Elie: I’m still going to call him Martie.
DOOMSAYER SCENE
Doomsayer: You, sir! Do you want to live?
Aiden: It depends. Is this going to be about Jesus?
D: No.
A: Well then, let’s hear it.
E: Let’s go, Aiden. This person is creepy.
A: Shut up, El.
D: We’re all going to die.
A: No kidding, dipshit. Anything else?
D: In 2012 the Mayan calendar ends.
A: (sacrasm) fascinating.
D: The Mayans are the most astronomically advanced of the ancient cultures. From studying the stars, they realized that this age will come to an end in the year 2012.
A: Mhm.
D: Every major religion has a prophecy about the end of the world. The end is near. Is it really so hard to believe?
A: Yes. If the world’s going to end, what are you doing out here anyway?
D: Warning unbelievers.
E: (tugging at his arm) come on, Aiden. Let’s go.
A: If the world’s gonna end, it’s gonna end and there isn’t a damn thing either of can do about it. As far as I’m concerned you’re going to die just the same. So go home. All you can do is what we all do: piss the days away and try not to get too bored while you’re waiting to die.
D: But the end is 2012. The Mayan calendar ends, I said. That’s why Galileo was exhiled. He discovered the truth. That’s what’s buried in Roswell, too. The truth.
A: (puts arm around Elie) we’re leaving.
(they walk off)
E: Aiden, do you really believe all that stuff?
A: Mayan calendar and all that shit? No. Who cares anyway. That guy’s probably a crack head or something.
E: No, I mean, what you said. About boredom and waiting to die.
A: Oh. I don’t know.
LAST SCENE
(Aiden picks up a lemon and sits next to Dad on couch)
Dad: Not leaving this weekend, huh?
Aiden: No.
Dad: Want to go to church?
Aiden: Not really.
Dad: Want to go to carhenge?
Aiden: I guess. (takes a bite out of a lemon)
Anyway, I’m meeting with my prof. in half an hour to talk about where this play is going. I’m not at the point yet where I feel like it’s all coming together. Right now, it’s mostly random chaos.
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Tags: characters, fiction, play, script, writing
Booyah!
Remember how I was whining about not having a proper opening to my novella? Well I just wrote one, and I like it:
My mother in a blue apron, canning peaches–this is the first clear memory I possess. She said, “Peaches don’t last very long. But right now we have more than we could possibly eat. So while we have them I shut them up in jars and close them tight. That way they last almost forever. They’ll never be as good as they are now, but we can open a jar whenever we want to taste them again.” Sometimes when I am lonely I find this memory beside me, a quiet friend. When I am cold I take it out and hold it in my hands and it warms me. She died, but this is not about her death, or for that matter her life. The point is: Nothing can ever be fully taken from me. Time and the world can remove every speck of physical evidence, but that tiny shard called memory remains.
I know that the things I love will die, or my connections to them may break absolutely. But even the pain of loss can never destroy my love and my memories. The love I gave away, and which I still have, endures incorruptible. That which passes away in object is raised immortal in the mind. And when the whole earth fades, I’m convinced my mind will remain somewhere, if only to remember it. The best of everything is preserved in a little glass jar I call myself. For instance:
Spring makes me think of puddle-jumping with my sister.
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Tags: characters, fiction, glowbug, writing
Annubis.doc
Browsing my hard drive, I found a file last modified in Sept. of 2005 named “Annubis.doc”. It would have been the beginning of my last year of high school. To me, that’s ages ago. The file was the beginning of a very odd conceptual piece of fiction I never did anything with about a man who… well, just read it and tell me what you think. I may resurrect it someday. As premises go, it was pretty original if I do say so myself. So, here’s the file’s contents:
Before you begin this story, I felt it was prudent to briefly explain the workings of the universe. Man exists on two separate but intertwines planes: that of the Waking and that of the Dreaming. It is easy to presuppose that one’s life in the Waking is the real one. This is incorrect. Nor is it correct to say that the plane of Dreaming is the real one. Rather, they are both real (though it is difficult to explain this concept to another, since one’s understanding depends on the mind’s perception of reality, which is fundamentally incomplete at any one point in time). The tendency to believe the Waking world is the only true one comes from several factors. We spend much more time in it. It is often more vivid, while excursions to the Dreaming world can be foggy, unclear, and easily forgotten. The Waking world is also perfectly structured. There is a solid progression of time, measurable and comprehensible traversing of space, and a course of events that, even if surprising, flows seamlessly and is wholly logical.
William Theodore Markham, as he had been called the most recent few decades, sat in his chair by the fire reading a good book, though he could not focus on the words. He looked up at his clock, which always held the most precise time. It was 11:52 PM. Now William was fixated upon this clock because he had a peculiar condition ever since he was a young child: if he was not already asleep, he would fall asleep exactly at midnight. Furthermore, regardless of when he first went to sleep, he had never awoken before around 2:30 AM, though he could not pinpoint the exact time. That is to say, to the best of his knowledge, between the hours of twelve midnight and approximately 2:30 AM, he was utterly incapable of being conscious. This inexplicable condition may seem of little consequence, since most people are in bed during those hours anyway. You may think it would have virtually no effect on one’s life. But you would be wrong.
Twice in college he had attempted an all-night study session, but promptly fallen asleep at midnight and awoken the following morning not long before the test, failing it miserably. In high school, he was out one fine Saturday swimming in a local lake with friends. As the clock tolled midnight, his body went limp, and consciousness left him. He soon awoke in confusion to find that his romantic interest, Elaine, had revived him via CPR. At the time he shrugged off whatever had happened and convinced himself that it was all for the best, since he got a free “kiss” out of it.
He chuckled as he remembered his own juvenile thoughts that day. He had ended up marrying her, though, so he supposed that incident turned out quite well. He had barely talked to her before then.
One incident stood out far above the rest. One morning at the age of six, he awoke to find himself in a hospital room, his right arm covered in burns. His father stood over him and after asking how he felt, slowly and sympathetically told him that there was a fire in the night, and that his mother had found him with his clothes catching on fire. She smothered the flames with her shirt and carried him outside, shielding him from the smoke with her shirt. However, she had taken in far too much herself. William turned to his left to see his mother on a ventilator. She died two days later.
11:56. He stood up and walked to his bed, and laid beside his wife. She was already asleep. She looked so peaceful. And so vulnerable. William also suffered from a paranoia that one day someone would come into his home at night—someone who would harm his wife—and amidst her screams he would sleep comfortably unaware, petrified by unconsciousness. He fully acknowledged these thoughts as unlikely and paranoid, but still they haunted him. Each and every night. “Please watch over my wife, and this home.” He said looking up in his brief prayer, identical to the one the night before.
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Tags: fiction, writing
What’s next?
I started writing this the other day in my sister’s apartment. I’m trying to write a (very) short story which has no dialog and relies mostly on setting, yet is not boring. Here’s what I have so far.
A cloud-haze of cigarette guts haunted the stairwell air, not thick enough to puff and swirl but enough to make everything look distant and gray. Above, the bulb did not flicker but was strangely yellow and dim, perhaps not dying but certainly sick.
Staring at the sweater of the girl leading me upstairs, I tried to imagine the expression on her face. Actually, I couldn’t picture her face at all. I must have thought she was sort of hot at some point but the specifics were now lost. In my defense the bar hadn’t exactly been well-lit either. Was she happy? Excited? Doubtful. She walked with a slowness–indecision? No, more like tiredness.
As she slid the key into the door, she made a backward glance at me. I couldn’t see the eyes through her hanging curls but I felt her staring. How many flights up were we? Six? Seven? From outside I didn’t notice the building went that high. Then again, I didn’t actually look up.
She held the doorknob wrapped in her long fingers. It probably didn’t take her more than a second to turn it, but I remember thinking a lot of things in that second. Images from other girls’ apartments came in a small but sudden flood. Condom wrapper on tan carpet. Wine glass filled red. Loose change on messy dresser. A corroded shower-head. A couch. A futon. A twin, queen, king-size bed with blue, white, red sheets. Little shards of women lodged in my brain. I remember more places than faces. For some reason.
Anyway the girl opened the door and walked in, not looking at me, but expecting me to follow. She clicked on a lamp by the couch and just went into the bathroom and closed the door, I guess to freshen up. I was surprised she didn’t offer a drink or even ask me to wait a minute; she just left me alone in the living room without saying anything. Not that I was offended or anything; I’m not that touchy.I sank into the couch.
The place was pretty tidy and I was thankful for that. But I noticed was a coffee stain on the coffee table. Well, maybe it was coffee. It was brown. Actually it was a dark reddish brown, like dried blood, except the spread pattern was too watery. It was soaked in good, too. Sinister-looking. The wood was unfinished. I kept on looking at it. Don’t ask why. Searching for meaning I guess. And I don’t know why I just called the stain “sinister.” I don’t remember what I was thinking when I was looking at it, but sinister is what I’m feeling now.
I stood to my feet, not impatient exactly, but antsy. She was taking a long time in the john. Quiet, too. No running water or any other sounds. I knew better than to knock, though. I just nosed around. The cleanliness was kind of weird, actually. There was nothing laying anywhere, no objects on any surface. There were quite a few paintings on the wall, but they did not go together or suggest any particular taste. Most of them were the familiar paintings everyone has. It looked like someone just walked into a department store and bought several random prints.
I went for the fridge, which is always a pretty good place for harmless snooping. I kept one eye on the bathroom knowing she’d come out any second, and yanked open the fridge. The top shelf had bottled water, cans of diet Pepsi, and something dark (fruit juice?) in a plastic bottle with no label. Other than that it was empty. She was one of those people with a refrigerator full of beverages. On the door was a bottle of ketchup and a small prescription pill bottle. It was half full of dark blue pills. The label read CHLORAMPHENICOL. I didn’t know what that was; I don’t know anything about medicines.
So, I have two questions for my readers:
1. What is your impression of the narrator, and of the girl?
2. Any ideas for what happens next?
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Tags: characters, fiction, writing
Or, The Trouble with ‘WWJD’.
Note: This is not a “Christian blog”, but a blog of what I’m writing, which sometimes is stuff like this, since I’m a Christian. So, deal with it.
“What would Jesus do?” has become a practical rule of thumb among Christians. But I’ve encountered more than a few difficulties with this. Looking at Jesus’ character makes it clear what to do in most moral or ethical dilemmas. But there are many other kinds of dilemmas. One I remember was fretting over which college to go to and what to study. What would Jesus do? I don’t know. Jesus didn’t go to college. What kind of woman should I marry? Jesus didn’t get married. I’m a young adult in need of money; what would Jesus do? Carpentry, but that’s not for me. A silly train of thought, perhaps, but one with unsettling implications. Jesus’ specific choices and actions are in many cases no real help to me.
a relevant comment from A Softer World, a comic I like.
I like to think that Christ on earth was completely human, except free from sin. He not only had blood, but a blood type. A brainwave pattern and DNA sequence. And so, I often wonder what kind of personality Christ had. He was a person, after all, and must have had his own set of idiosyncrasies. A certain way of speaking, a certain sense of humor, perhaps a favorite dish or favorite color. It’s no use avoiding this by saying “he was simply Good.” or “he was perfect.” Indeed he was, but goodness and even perfection come in many forms. And while God contains all these forms, those of us in human bodies, including Jesus on earth, are bound to specifics.
Christ is the only perfect person, and his life is the only one in which every second was pleasing to God. But exactly what he did with his earthly life is bound to his time, space, and mission. His life is the only perfect example we have, but it is still only an example to follow, not a detailed blueprint to copy. It may be that God wants you to be an impoverished vagabond preacher until you’re arrested and tortured to death at the age of 33. In that vein, many are tempted to automatically become a persecuted preacher or third-world missionary. But it’s possible, or even likely, that God wants you for some other purpose entirely.
Jesus was perfect in his conformity to the will of God, but not necessarily in other ways. Scripture implies that he was not especially handsome There is nothing irreverent in the possibility that perhaps he was clumsy or occasionally forgot to get the milk. Jesus is described as a man of sorrows, who often went off to be alone. I sometimes wonder, are sorrow and loneliness necessary traits of someone who practices the presence of God? Or were they because of his specific mission to die for us (“Where I am going, you cannot follow.”)? Or was he just an introvert? Who knows. Not me.
The Apostle Paul calls Christians different organs in one body. We all have vastly different personalities and talents. Even if we all became sinless, like Christ, we wouldn’t look exactly the same as he did on earth, nor would we look the same as one another. We would all be perfectly functioning but unique organs. Part of every Christians walk is not just realizing this, but figuring out what organ God had in mind when he made you. Ask Him. It probably won’t be the same as your parents, your pastor, or your best friend. In that sense we all must find our own way. If you compare biblical heroes, you will see that when you submit your life to God there’s no telling what He’ll do with it. Abraham got countless descendants. Samson became a legendary warrior. Solomon became a wise king. Mary got pregnant with a child who would save the world, and the disciples were almost all murdered or executed. Following Christ does not just mean copying his earthly life event-for-event. (I’d say that was too easy if his life weren’t the most difficult of all.) Following Christ means embracing uncertainty with courage, pursing love and a blameless moral character, trusting God absolutely.
My apologies; this has been a bit disorganized, like my mind. In short, as I see it there are two troubles with difficulties with that all-too-easy-sounding question, “what would Jesus do?”:
1. God has his own mission for you which may or may not involve being male, middle-eastern, and a carpenter.
2. People ask “what would Jesus do?” as if it always had an obvious answer, as if they really understood Jesus and how he would act in any situation. Maybe they know more than me, but the closer I get to Christ the more I feel he is a great mystery.
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Tags: christianity, essay, faith, jesus
about me
I'm a writing major finishing up college. This blog is to a progress journal of my current creative projects.
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