on suffering

Becky and I talked for a while last night. About lots of things. We talked about things we wish we could have changed about last semester. There were things in my control that I wish I would have changed: losing weight, overcoming my nicotine addiction, enriching my communion with God, making more friends. But there was one thing out of my control that I wish could have been different: Jessie and I were really good friends, and I made the mistake of telling her that I liked her, and midway through the semester she just up and stopped talking to me. Our friendship died overnight. All I got was an apology. It hurt like hell. I’m sure she didn’t know she was hurting me. But it still hurt a lot. And I grew even more cold and calloused than I was before. 

Becky says she likes suffering because she learns from it and grows. I made the comment, “The question is, what do we learn, and how do we grow? Do we become cynical or more hopeful? Do we become better people, or do we turn into cold and hardened jerks?” I’m afraid of becoming the latter. It’s just so difficult. My life seems to be one constant suffering after another, with sporadic bursts of happiness in between—but never a happiness that lasts. Happiness feels so fleeting, so empty, so vain. Am I becoming cynical? Yes—but I cling to hope even if it hurts. Hope that happiness will come, a happiness and joy that will last. A hope that my greatest dreams will not falter but come to pass—my dreams of laughter, love, friendship, romance. I cling to these hopes so tightly.

creepy dreams

A friend and I had survived the plague and were holed up on the top floor of a warehouse. We had installed titanium plates over the windows that would open at dawn and close at dusk. We had been doing quite well for ourselves, but a gang of survivors wished to take our hideout as their own. They came close to dusk, climbing through the windows and attacking us. We tried to fight them off, but they captured us. They took us outside to leave us for the humans-turned-vampires, but we escaped and climbed ladders to the upper windows. They followed just as dusk began to set. My friend was the first through the window, and I was climbing after him. The titanium plates over the windows began to close. I squirmed my torso through the window, but one of the gang members had grabbed my ankle and was pulling me back, hysterical as she tried to yank me out so she could get in. Terror gripped us all. I remember my friend yelling at me, and me yelling back—“She’s got me! She’s got me!” The windows continued to close. I knew that if I didn’t get free, they would cut me in half, right along the pelvis. But I knew that if I let go, an even worst fate awaited me as night fell. We began to hear them emerging from the shadows of the surrounding buildings, grotesque and unimaginable in their horror. They scurried back and forth below. One of the gang members had been at the bottom, lost in confusion, and her screams met my ears as they overtook her. The ladder began to shake, and I looked down, past the woman holding my ankle, and saw several vampires ascending the ladder. I kicked my ankle as hard as I could. The titanium plates were drawing closer. The woman shrieked at me, “Let me in! Let me in!” I felt my ankle jerk, and then her grip was gone; I glanced down to see one of the vampires grabbing her leg and pulling. She clung to the ladder, face ashen, then the creature won: she tumbled through the air, screaming as she fell, and landed among them at the building—luckily, she was killed on impact. They vampires hungrily yelped and shouted as they tore apart her corpse. The other vampire was right on me; I quickly kicked my way through the window, tumbling along the floor. I scurried like a crab onto my feet, just in time to see the vampire coming through, eyes maniacal, teeth stained a morbid yellow. It gave a shuddering cry, then my friend appeared, swinging a wooden beam. It cracked into the vampire’s skull an sent it tumbling back. The titanium plates closed shut, and we stood panting in the gloom of the upper warehouse floor, our ears ignited with the sounds of the vampires down below, hungrily feasting. 

The dead were returning to life to feast on the living. Becky, Jessie, Scuttle, Lydia and I were holed up at Becky and Jessie’s house in Michigan. We’d been there several weeks. The windows were boarded up and the doors locked. We spent nearly all our time in the house, unless we needed to venture out for food, which one never did alone. So far we had been lucky, but a horde of zombies had found us. They threw themselves against the wooden doors, shrieking, hammering, trying to get in. We rushed upstairs, into Becky’s bedroom. We all huddled together, hearts racing, trying to listen, to see what was happening, but the noises of the rampaging zombies were all but muted by our ferocious heartbeats. We heard the glass windows shatter and the wooden boards splinter. Then they began moving through the first floor, knocking things over in their thirst to find us. We all cowered together, rigid with fear. “They’re coming up,” Jessie said. She had better hearing than all of us. No one doubted her. Becky rushed forward to shut the door to her room; but as she reached the door, a bloated, vein-ridden arm reached through the crack and grabbed her. She let out a scream. Lydia ran forward to help just as Becky was yanked into the hallway. Lydia darted after her, despite Scuttle’s pleas for her to remain with the rest of us. Jessie fell onto Becky’s bed, sobbing for her sister. I stood planted where I was, unable to move. Lydia had disappeared into the hallway; we heard another scream. She appeared in the doorway, leaning in, then her eyes bulged and she was jerked away. The sounds of crunching meat and splitting bones filled our ears. A pool of blood appeared running down the carpet in the hallway. A shadow fell over us, one of the zombies standing there, wearing a bloodied t-shirt and frayed jeans. It had once been a beautiful teenage girl; now it had become a monster. It lunged inside, and then I woke up.

life: the journey

Life is a journey. New chapters are constantly being written, the beginnings and ends unknown until they arrive and pass us by. Our lives are a sequence of scenes and acts, in which we are actors and actresses, each working together to the masterpieces we are writing—on an individual, communal, and global scale. Each scene is laced with foreshadowing we cannot perceive, mysteries we cannot understand, and each scene gives rise to the next. Our lives are comedies, dramas, soap operas, and thrillers. Each of our stories is filled with surprise twists and turns, leaving us outside the realm of control over our own destinies. I have come to view my life as a story. As I look back through all the years I’ve walked on this earth, I come to view my life as an unfolding epic where new actors are born, where nobodies become stars, and where the future hangs in the balance in my decisions here-and-now. There are high points. There are low points. There are beginnings and endings. There are detours, short-cuts, long-cuts, and dead-ends. There are times when life is going at a lightning-fast pace and I can barely hold on; and at other times, life plods slowly along, like a giant dinosaur ambling aimlessly. There are times I want to weep, times I want to laugh; time when I am filled with energy, vigor, and passion; and times when I want nothing to do but curl into a fetal position and cry myself to sleep. In all of the events of my life, in the good and bad, I am being transformed. I am being molded and shaped, by both my life experiences and by God. At times it feels like nothing is happening; but as I look back on the past, I can see how I have grown, matured, and developed. And I can see that God really did know what He was doing. I’m not sure what the future holds. I’m not sure if I want to know what the future holds. Some days trusting God continues to be a struggle; other days, it comes easy. In the end, we all must do what Tim recommended so long ago: “Just sit back and enjoy the ride.” It’s a wild, crazy, unpredictable ride, with tragedies and heartbreakers, with thrills and excitements. We never know what’s around the next curve.

this girl that i like

There’s this girl. That I like. I’ve liked her for a little while now, and I’m torn on what to do. Say something? Say nothing? I’ve perceived flirtatious signals, but in my experience, girls will flirt with boys they have no interest in. Reading girls is a fool’s game. You just have to throw yourself out there and hope you don’t end up shooting yourself in the foot. I’ve talked to my friends about the situation. One friend tells me, “It sounds like she likes you.” Another says, “She’s acting the way she is because she’s close to you and trusts you. It doesn’t mean she has feelings for you.” A lot is at stake; that is, a friendship that I don’t want to ruin. Rob once advised me, “Don’t wait too long to tell a girl you like her, or she’ll play the friendship card.” Gah. I am clueless. She is a wonderful girl. I’d like to date her and call her my girlfriend. I’d be very proud of the fact. But I don’t want to say something, end up realizing I’ve misinterpreted her signals, and then see the friendship flounder. Really good friends are hard to come by, and the idea of losing this friendship—not in the sense of it becoming absent but in the sense of it becoming less than what it is now—is frightening. Any advice would be great.

unleash the beast

I am no casual observer. 

The keys to my future are held in my hand. 

I can either sit on my ass and stay where I am… 

Or I can move forward. 

I’m content, but contentment does not erase the longings within me to be a different person. Physically. Mentally. Spiritually. Emotionally. There is always room for improvement. I have this vision often, a vision that creeps into my dreams, that haunts me when I wake. I’m sitting on the front porch of my yellow cottage-style house, the sun setting over the tops of the trees. I am smoking a cigar, listening to the birds and insects, and inside I can hear my children laughing and my wife washing the dishes. She comes out and joins me, and I snuff out my cigar and we sit on the swing, arms around each other, watching the sun setting. 

I want to be a family man. 

I want to be a loving husband and a loving father. 

Sometimes this dream seems so far away. 

Sometimes it seems as if I had better stop hoping. 

But when it feels like I should embrace resignation, a voice whispers in my ear. 

A voice telling me that I am no casual observer to my life. 

A voice telling me that there is untapped potential within me. 

A voice telling me that there is a beast within me waiting to be unleashed. 

All I need to do is take the bolt-cutters, cut that chain, 

and let the Animal within roam free.

the sunshine retreat

I'm in Sharon, Pennsylvania for the weekend. Helping out with the "Sunshine Retreat" - a weekend-long party for mentally handicapped adults. It's lots of fun. The retreat also serves as a reunion: I get to see several of my old friends again. Jessica, Elizabeth, Margie, Bucci. Amos and Kyle would be included in the mix, but I see them all the time. I have been cuddling with the dogs, watching Animal Planet, and playing in the snow. I have a headache, though, and that's no fun. It's weird being at camp and seeing the trees naked and bare, the snow covering everything. Last time I was here, it was the hottest week of summer. The past four months have gone by so fast. So much has happened. My hopes with Courtney were dashed. My hopes with Jessie were thrown to the sharks. I passed through the dark valley once more, but I came out into the light once again. I'm content to be where I'm at, I'm discovering who I am, and I am making progress as a human being, trying to be a loving person in a world full of selfishness, greed, and indifference. Sometimes I succeed. I'm going to go see if they've cut the cookie cake yet. Bye.

bustin my moves

alex's bar mitzvah

The Temple: the ceremony took place at Temple Emanu-el. It was led by the Rabbi. Several Hebrew prayers and songs were sang, and a message was given on the Joseph story. Alex, being the man of honor, read several Hebrew benedictions. These peoples’ respect for the Word of God is immense. It is a solemn act to withdraw the Torah scrolls from the Ark, and the honor they give the Word of God is something Christians could learn from. The reverence and awe was contagious. I sat back and looked over the murals of the Exodus, the engravings that depicted the Ten Commandments given to Moses on Mt. Sinai. This is a culture saturated with tradition and history. They seek to honor their Jewish roots and bring pride to their Israelite heritage. It really is something to ponder. 

Superman: my uncle rented out an Italian restaurant and hired a D.J. for the celebration. It was hilarious to see thirty to forty little Jewish kids wearing their Jewish caps and prayer shawls, dancing to the song “Superman” by Soulja Boy. Sarah told me, “Abraham would be proud.” 

The Kissing Game: The kids played a game during the celebration where the boys sat in a circle. Music was played, and when the music stopped, the girls would have to pair up with a boy and sit on his lap. They would kiss the boys on the cheek, and the one who was too shy to kiss the boy would be the person out of the game. This went on for a while, and then it was the guy’s turn to sit down. The guys went around in the circle, then sat down on the girls’ laps. They said, “We won’t kiss, we’ll just hug,” but the girls were adamant: “Oh, you have to kiss us. And you have to kiss us on the lips!” The boys loved that, seeing as all the girls there were from my cousin’s high school cheerleading squad. It was fun to watch, the preteen awkwardness that shines so bright. 

Alex’s Coming Out: Alex has always been a shy boy, but after the game with the girls, he experienced a “coming out.” He was talking with girls like mad, and he ran around giving them kisses and hugs. My entire family found it hilarious. My uncle was proud of his son: “He’s becoming a man, all right!” 

Never Ceasing Drama: But the drama with this side of the family never ceases. My grandfather had a fit that he had to sit through the Jewish services. “This is garbage!” he kept exclaiming. When the Temple members talked about their practices, which seem strange and foreign to those outside their faith, he remarked hotly, “That’s terrible what they’re doing!” I wanted to sarcastically hiss, “Not everyone’s as narrow-minded and bigoted as you,” but I kept my mouth shut. It’s always better to just ignore him. 

The Bar: Jewish people know how to celebrate. We Christians should take a lesson in that. The bar served a non-ending stream of beer on tap and all kinds of alcoholic concoctions. I didn’t drink, being the Designated Driver, but it was fun to watch much of the family become so drunk they were stumbling around. I danced to the Superman song with my mom and aunt, and my aunt told me, clutching a martini, “You’re going to have the cutest little kids! You’re going to be such a good daddy.” I liked that. I hope I will be one day. Father’s Day is always exciting for me, because it makes me yearn for the day that I can hold my own child in my arms, read my child stories before bed, tuck my child under the sheets, and treat my child like he (or she) is the prince (or princess) of the world.

a peaceful dawn

a lot is going to change

Sarah and I watched a weird movie called “Black Sheep” on Monday night. Genetically-mutated sheep become infectious and begin attacking people left and right. The bitten people, if they are not consumed by the berzerking sheep, become half-human, half-sheep monsters that thirst for human blood. Technically, it’s a comical zombie movie… But I think it is more along the lines of a twisted werewolf (were-sheep?) plot. Kayla and I went to Starbucks last night. I recommend the gingerbread latte. It was good to get away from campus and just talk about all kinds of fun things. I went over to James and John’s house in Clifton. Sarah joined us. We played Halo on their XBOX-360. Weariness overcame me, so I came back to campus. Now I am sitting in my dorm room, very thirsty, contemplating a shower followed by reading “The Road”, a book I picked up from Barnes and Nobles a few days ago. 

Tomorrow I leave for Georgia. My cousin is having his bar mitzvah. A good amount of my family is Jewish. I’m really looking forward to it. This will be the second bar mitzvah I’ve gone to, and the first one was pretty fun as well. 

A lot is going to change. A lot already has changed. I sat in the coffee shop today waiting for Sarah to return from Wal-Mart, and I ran into several individuals who were once a big part of my life but have now gone "off screen", for lack of a better word. One was an ex-girlfriend, whom I am over, but seeing her sometimes still brings back the memories. Good memories. Not painful memories. Memories that make me all the more eager to hold a girl in my arms once more. Another person I ran into was an individual whom I semi-dated at the beginning of the semester. Great girl. Everything was going good, it looked like we would be official soon, then she just stopped talking to me, stopped answering phone calls, refused to hang out, just cut me out of her life. It's been a wild semester. And, yes... A lot is going to change.

a convo with amanda

Amanda asked me last night, “Are you disgusted with yourself?” 

“Huh?” I said, confused. 

“Aunt Teri said you are disgusted with yourself. She said that she could read it in your eyes.” 

“I’m not disgusted with myself. I don’t know why she thinks that.”

And I’m not disgusted with myself. I am pretty happy with who I am. I’m a good guy. I treat girls right. I don’t take advantage of people. I give people the respect they deserve. I am kind and caring and compassionate. I put other peoples’ happiness before my own, even though it sucks at times. I am a good guy. I really am. I have things I need to work on (who doesn’t?), but in the core of my being, I am a silly boy who wants people to be happy and gets upset when he sees injustice in all its forms. Yes. I’m a good guy. I’ve had people tell me that I’m not. But I think I have a cool personality—quirky, weird, loopy, silly. This is good stuff, eh? And I treat people well. Even if I absolutely loathe someone, I treat them with dignity and respect because they are human beings. So am I disgusted with myself? No, I don’t think so. Sorry if this seems rather egotistical. I just don’t know why someone would presume that I am disgusted with myself. I’m content to be Mr. Anthony Barnhart, and I don’t want to be anyone else—even with all the problems and issues that come along with that name, I wouldn’t trade it in for anything else. God made me who I am, and who am I to question the workings of His hands?

the horned devil from the river of hell

With ten minutes to spare in class after teaching my lesson, I felt inspired to play some hangman with the class. I wanted to throw them off, so I wrote on the board, next to a silhouetted gallows: _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _. The hint: “This word means ‘The Horned Devil from the River of Hell.’” It took them a while to guess it, but they eventually figured it out by throwing out vowels and consonants: Stygimoloch. “This dinosaur was ten feet long,” I told the class, “and it was discovered in Hell Creek, Montana. Its name is the corrupted blending of two words: styx and moloch. Styx was the river in Greek mythology that the dead had to cross to reach the Underworld. Moloch was a horned demon in Hebrew mythology, and a corruption of ‘Molech’, a pagan god to whom infants were sacrificed. It was a pachycephalosaur, cousins to the stegosaurs. It had a thin dome of bone on its head, and its head ornamentation included nasty, protruding spikes and stubby horns.” And then I dismissed the class. Here is a colorful image of the dinosaur: 

I have two more classes to teach before I am done at Southwest. I somehow want to weave dinosaurs into the mix. I am thinking about doing one lesson on the beauty of dinosaurs and how they point us to the Creator, using texts from psalms to illustrate how creation sings of God’s glory. And perhaps with another one I will tackle the creation/evolution debate, giving several different theories regarding how dinosaurs fit into the historical narrative of planet earth.

thanksgiving '07

I don’t see Mom’s side of the family very often, so when we get together, it’s always memorable. Tonight was one such nights. A delicious turkey and ham dinner, with mashed potatoes and corn and green beans, stuffing, lots of rolls. We all stuffed ourselves and spent the evening watching Season 3 episodes of “The Office” with Steve Carrel. All good times come to an end, however: everyone left. At least I get to look forward to seeing them again on Saturday for a bonfire get-together. Here is my cousin Jared’s dog: 

 He’s a boxer, and though he may look menacing when he growls and barks, he’s the biggest pansy. He’ll run from anything. Get in his face and he’ll jump up and run. One of my favorite things to do with him is run in circles around the house; he’ll follow, running and hopping like a deer, sliding over the tile floors; but when you turn around to face him, he throws himself in the other direction and runs like mad. I spent Monday and Tuesday at my cousin’s house, and Boozer slept with me, curled up in a ball at my side. He had nightmares one night several times. I patted his head, gently woke him up, and he would lick me and crawl closer. Cute, huh? A Hebrew prayer of thanksgiving: 

Though our mouths were full of song as the sea, and our tongues of exultation as the multitude of its waves, and our lips of praise as the wide-extended firmament; though our eyes shone with light like the sun and the moon, and our hands were spread forth like the eagles of heaven, and our feet were swift as hinds, we should still be unable to thank thee and bless thy name, O Lord our God and God of our fathers, for one thousandth or one ten thousandth part of the bounties which thou has bestowed upon our fathers and upon us.

craving for more

It’s a peaceful break from reality: playing PS3, watching countless comedies, and curling up beside my cousin’s boxer and falling quietly asleep. But it is in the quiet that thoughts begin to consume me, begin to tear at my mind, screaming at me in shrieking, shrill whispers. These thoughts come in waves, breaking upon me like the ocean surf against jagged New England rocks. Sometimes it’s just a fight to stay afloat. I’m not really complaining. I can handle it. I’ve dealt with it my entire life. A beautiful genetic gift from my mother. She understands me. Not many people do. I come across looking like the most pessimistic person in the world, but that’s not really the case. First of all, I like to consider myself a realist. And second of all, I have high dreams, hopes, ambitions that I expect to come to pass. One day I want to get married to a wonderful girl and raise a family. I want to work in a church where I can communicate the gospel message in a way that is relevant and powerful. I want to plant churches. And I want to spend time in Ireland, Scotland, and Australia. I have hopes and dreams and ambitions, and I know they are attainable… I just need to be patient. But patience comes in small packages, and I always feel like a chain-smoker who has run out of his last pack of cigarettes and only has a handful of nickels and pennies in his pockets. 

I want to be remembered. I want to be known as the poor, unknown, weird kid who made a difference. Who took the tear-stained ashes of his life and turned it into a flowering garden with beautiful orchids, flowering banana palms, and cycads reaching to the stars. I don’t want to be just another nobody walking the streets, living an unadventurous life and being void of stories to tell. I’ve had my adventures, and I’ve encapsulated one such adventure—if you want to call it that—into a book I published over the summer. But as I look at my mundane, unexciting, run-of-the-mill life, I can’t help but hunger for more. Hunger for life. For vitality. For a new kind of blood to course through my veins. I want so much more than I have now. I’m not talking about material possessions. I’m talking about the quality of life that I live. I want more, life abundant and beautiful, a life that seems more like an orchestra or ballet or rave than waiting at the doctor’s office till they invite you in and tell you that you have some type of incurable disease. I have a frightening nightmare every now and then: I’m twenty-five years old, sitting at a bar, throwing down shots and smoking a cigarette, drowning out my misery and suffocating in regret. I want so much more than I have now. But this is life: what you want, you can’t have; what you have is taken away; and happiness is as fleeting as the spring rains. Or maybe this is cynicism. Maybe my idea of being a realist is just self-deception. Maybe I need to pull some unknown mask from over my eyes, or at least see the world through a different lens. I want more.

yearning for a zombie apocalypse

My life isn’t very exciting.

I bet a zombie apocalypse would make it exciting. Sure, I’d have loads of emotional and psychological baggage to deal with afterwards (in the event that I did not end up bitten and join the legions of the Undead), but it would at least make my life a little more interesting. I

went outside this morning with my morning cup of coffee and felt great sadness: emotionally, spiritually, physically, romantically.

Emotionally, I want to be happy and content (I’m honestly struggling with that).

Spiritually, I want my communion with God to be rich and satisfying (it’s not).

Physically, I want to be skinny and attractive (I’m not).

Romantically, I want to have a “Dream Lover” to call my own (I don’t).

A zombie apocalypse would make me realize how lucky I really am right now. I tend to forget that.

my weekend

Christmas in Springboro is this weekend. Every year it’s a good time: good booths (kettle corn and roasted almonds top the charts), horse-drawn carriages, free hot chocolate and coffee and cookies, and getting to see many of my old friends. Last night I was nearly ran over by the horse-drawn carriage; Pat yelled, “Anthony!” and I turned around to see a horse’s head in my face, the legs galloping without any hindrance, and I dove out of the way just as it passed, my arm brushing the horse’s side. Everyone in the carriage looked down at me and shook their heads (snobs!) and the people in the crowd laughed. I brushed myself off and just grinned. Ashlie, Hague and I walked around for a bit, then I visited Matt at the Garage, and Chris and Pat went to Chris’ place to play on his classic N64 before heading to Ashlie’s to watch Jingle All the Way. Brian and Nathan showed up. Grand times. My schedule for this weekend?

Clean the house.
Eat Chinese!
Attend Christmas in Springboro once more.
Work on a book I've been writing.
Teach class on Sunday?
Missionary convention?
Work 6-9 with Andrew at the Hilltop.

Thanksgiving break starts Tuesday at… six? I’m ready for it. I have 32 papers to write in the next three weeks. Gah.

the story of God and Hades

I taught class on Sunday. The church is going through St. Paul’s letters to the Philippians. I was asked to teach the first service gathering, so I obliged. I taught out of Philippians 1.15-18, where Paul writes about preachers who preach the gospel out of bad motives, but he writes that he is not going to oppose them because the gospel message is being preached (he doesn’t endorse their motives, however). We talked about how some people will preach the gospel out of bad motives even today—desire for wealth, fame, status, success, popularity. And we talked about how St. Paul viewed “the advancement of the gospel.” To Paul, the gospel’s advance is not marked by how many people become Christians but how many people hear the gospel and have the chance to respond. We can’t control whether or not people embrace the gift of the cross, but we can tell people the Good Message and thus give them a chance to partake in the gospel. With this in mind, we talked about how one would advance the gospel through their school—that being making the gospel message known—and then we addressed the question, “What is the gospel?” And I presented the gospel to them in the form of a story:

Creation: God creates the universe, and mankind and God are friends. The creation is beautiful and good.

The Fall: mankind decides to rebel against God (sin), and so mankind becomes enemies with God. The universe, because of this situation, begins to fall apart.

Cross: through the cross, God “erases” our rebellion against Him, and so we are no longer His enemies but His friends. And though we are God’s friends, we still live in a world that is falling apart because of the Fall, a world dominated by sorrow, grief, suffering, and pain. We await the day when God will fix all of this.

Restoration: God re:makes the universe, re:forming it with new planets and new stars and new galaxies and new animals, and God’s friends will dwell in this universe and reign with Him, building homes, raising crops, enjoying one another’s company, playing with the animals, enjoying the world of the new universe.

At the end of the class, a kid raised his hand and asked, “What about those people who aren’t Christians? What happens to them when God makes the new universe?” I paused for a moment, said, “The concept of Hell is not a very clear one. The Jews didn’t have a concept of the afterlife until the Intertestamental Period, when they adopted the afterlife views of Babylonian and Persian mythologies. And when the Bible talks about Hell, it isn’t really clear. But there are several views on Hell that can be supported using various scriptures. You should study them for yourself.” I wrote them on the board:

Exclusivism: only Christians go to heaven, all non-Christians are tormented in Hell for eternity. Our church holds to this view.

Inclusivism: some people who are not Christians will go to heaven and live with God because they responded appropriately to the knowledge of God that was available to them; salvation still comes through Christ’s blood, even if they do not know who Christ is.

Conditionalism: all Christians will go to heaven, and non-Christians will be tormented in Hell for what they deserve, and then they will be annihilated or extinguished. Their consciousness will be eradicated. Peace-loving people will not go through nearly as much pain as someone like Hitler or Kim Jong II. Purgatorial: people will be tortured in Hell for a period of time to pay for their sins, and then they will join everyone in heaven and share in the new universe with them.

Universalism: Hell does not exist; only Heaven is real; and everyone will go to Heaven due to the triumphal victory of God through Christ on the cross.

He asked me, “Which do you believe?” After a moment, I said, “I don’t know.”
And that’s just the truth.

Friday: Left my cell phone in Sarah’s car, drove around for three hours before finding the church where she worked. Went home to see Ams and swung by the Garage to visit good ol’ Matt Neil.

Saturday: watched episodes of “The Office” with Dad, went out to eat at an expensive joint for my grandparents’ 50th anniversary (sea scallop pasta and a delicious vanilla/chocolate/pecan desert). Went to the Garage for their last night, got to see tons of friends: Hague, Dewenter, Chris, Matt, Luke, Nathan, Brian, Megan, Ashlie, Alicia, to name just a few.

Sunday: hung out with Amos. We went to Fuddruckers for lunch and then relaxed at my place for a little while. The rain came down in drenching torrents, lulling me to sleep. I returned to campus to visit Trista and Monica in the coffee shop. It should be a good week, doing homework, hanging out with friends, writing a little here-and-there.

I got yet another email from a fan of my writings. His words pertain to my zombie novel 36 Hours:

Dear Mr. Barnhart:

I have just read your free version of 36 hours (the book is already ordered via lulu.com) and it is one of the best books I have ever read.

Especially towards the end, the story develops a depth only few books and even fewer zombie movies could even dream of attaining, making the tears of soft hearted and romantic guys like me flowing like waterfalls.

I would like to thank you very much for your great novel.

Yours sincerely.

M.S.

That’s always encouraging. I hope my writer’s block will eradicate soon.

History = His Story (???)

“History is His Story.” I saw this on a billboard today during my eternal driving around Mason to pick up a cell phone Sarah accidentally stole. As I pondered the billboard, I thought: “Bullshit.” Are world wars God’s history? Are the crusades God’s history? Is rape, murder, and genocide God’s history? God is involved in history, but sometimes I wonder if it is more our story than His. I’m not claiming to be a deist, I’m just wrestling with this concept that attributes everything in history—even the god-awful atrocities committed by human beings—to God playing humanity as if we were chess pieces on a global chessboard. Sometimes I wonder if history is more along the lines of God reaching out to Man and Man giving God the finger.

rethinking everything

“Life is about trusting your feelings and taking chances, losing and finding happiness. Appreciating the memories and learning from the pain and realizing that people always change.”

I am re:thinking everything.
Sarah: “Most of everything people tell you will be wrong.”

go figure...

I opened up my laptop in Exodus class today only to see a message telling me my hard drive was acting up. Becky let me use some of her cool notebook paper for notes. Anyways, I’ve spent much of the day trying to get it fixed, and when it seemed that the hard drive was mysteriously broken, I yanked it out of the computer and, with a foul word or two, slammed it repeatedly against the desk.

I am currently on my laptop and it seems everything is fixed.
Go figure, eh?

But I am still saving all my precious files to U.S.B. and I will re:format this beast sometime tomorrow.

Sarah and I are having a pizza and root beer party tonight at her house while we watch “Lethal Weapon.”

an update

Saturday nights are generally spent watching movies on the big screen in the family room, but every now and then I jump in the car and go down to The Garage on Main Street, a renovated bus garage that now serves as a venue for local artists. I’m not really a fan of the hardcore music, but I’m friends with everyone who works there: Chad on the sound board, Chris and Matt and Jeph in the coffee shop, and Seth who owns the place. The Garage was originally built by the (retired) youth minister of the church where I teach, and I did my youth ministry internship while The Garage was under its beginning and middle stages of construction. I helped with the electrical wiring, some construction, and getting things organized. A minor role. The pay-off is that I don’t have to pay the $7 cover fee whenever I show up. I just walk in. When the money-handlers are new, it’s sometimes a hassle. I look like I’m fourteen, so when I tell them that I get in free because I’ve been working with The Garage for as long as its existed, they think I’m just trying to slip them a lie. Eventually Seth comes down and explains it to them, and in time it’s not a hassle. Saturday night was a good night to be at The Garage. Some big bands played—the names of which I never caught—and lots of my old hometown, pre-college friends were there. Chris was working the coffee shop, so I helped him out a little bit. I slipped three bucks into his jeans and made myself an iced caramel macchiato. Ashlie showed up and we talked about everything and nothing. It was good just to talk with her in a non-hurried environment (a.k.a. church). There was a girl there flirting with me, and it was kind of awkward, because she’s fourteen and I’m twenty. It’s all right though. I’m used to it: twenty-year-old girls think I’m fourteen so they generally ignore me even if they’re interested (it’s been an occurrence when a girl was “interested” in me but was under the impression that I was much younger, so she didn’t move forward). I can’t blame the minor, either: she probably had no idea that I was twenty years old. Such is my life. My fortune cookie today after take-out Chinese read: Good Things Will Be Coming To You In Due Time. I don’t believe in fortune cookies, but sometimes I wish I did.

Class on Sunday went extremely well. I slept in too late and missed first service, but made it to 2nd. I taught on selflessness as the way of life that Christians are to embody (for selflessness is the root of love, and Christians are to be known for their love). We examined two passages in Philippians—Phil 2.5-11 and Phil 1.21-27—and explored how Christ was sacrificial through living a life of servant-hood and giving himself up on the cross despite his desires to bring about reconciliation in another way; and we explored how Paul embodied selflessness by remaining to live for the sake of other peoples’ interests despite his own desires to manipulate his trial before Emperor Nero to bring about his own death.

In New Testament Seminar I gave a presentation on “The Role of Government.” The role of government, as seen in the New Testament scriptures, is to enforce justice. God doesn’t care what form of government is in place (democracy, dictatorship, aristocracy, republic, communist state, etc.) as long as it is enforcing justice. God’s concern is not the form of government but the function.

a conglomeration of heresies

It’s sad that the issue has always been Creation vs. Evolution. How come we think that if evolution is true, then creation isn’t? Why is it so unbelievable to think that God created through evolution? Perhaps I am too empiricist. I have studied six-literal-day creationism, old-earth creationism, and progressive creationism (i.e. theistic evolution), and to be completely honest, I find theistic evolution more agreeable to science and to the biblical texts. The creation accounts we have are apologetic/polemic and not scientific in nature. We are not supposed to read them as scientists; we are supposed to read them as an uplifting of Israel’s God YHWH over the surrounding pagan gods (especially those of the Babylonian Empire, in which—I believe—the Torah as we know it today was compiled). And the idea that science and faith are at odds is blasphemous to me. If God is real, and if He created, wouldn’t we be able to catch a glimpse of how He did it—the mechanisms, tools, and features of His creating power and act? We have peered deeply into the glass of earth’s history and see that it is not 6-8000 years old but 4.8 billion years old; and we look into the stars and see that they were here long before earth: the universe is 12-14 billion years old! Our earth is draped in a rich tapestry of life. I flip through some of my books on evolution and the history of life and see so many different kinds of marvelous creatures—the pinnacle of which (and I say this in my own childish fantasies) is the dinosaurs—and each different species and family and genre shrieks “Design!” I won’t deny that these animals ever existed (the idea that Satan put them there to trick is ridiculous and idiotic); and I won’t deny that God is the Creator. I believe He used evolution—a tool which He created—to bring about the world as we know it now. And then He said, “Hey, I’m gonna create a special organism, which I’ll make in My image, and which will have a truly unique connection with Me.” And so humans came onto the scene. Is this heresy? I wager it depends on whom you talk to.

“Will God judge everyone based on the same set of standards? Will He be harsher with those who were wealthier, who lived in better circumstances, who had an easier life? Will He be more lenient with those who were poorer, who lived in dire circumstances, who had a difficult life?” This is a question that has been lurking lately. When God judges us for our actions, will the girl who had sex on the streets to provide for her children be judged just as harshly as a girl who had sex just to have fun—or to use and manipulate boys (I have never met such a girl, but I am sure they are out there)? I can’t imagine a just God not taking into account such things. I’ve always been taught that we will all be judged by the same standards… Perhaps my re:thinking of this is heresy?

The concept of Hell is something else that has been bothering me lately. Usually I’ve just filed it away into a theological woodshed, but it is becoming more and more real to me. It is a life-changing concept. I’ve been struggling with the idea of God tormenting people in Hell forever. It’s just unbelievable to me that we can have no choice about whether or not to come into this world and yet be forced to suffer in eternal torment if we don’t do or believe the right thing. I am trying to bring the two poles together: God the Loving Father tormenting people in Hell forever (something no father in this world has ever been guilty of), and God the Lover who loves us all so deeply and yet torments us forever because we didn’t do or believe the right thing. Perhaps I am dancing on the lines of heresy. Or maybe I’m just re:thinking things. I’ve been pouring my heart and soul into the scriptures about this. I’ve been so cultured into the mindset of exclusivism that any other idea—inclusivism, conditionalism, universalism—seems to scream “Heresy!” But the truth is, I’ve never examined these matters for myself. And now I am. And I don’t know what I’m going to find. The truth, hopefully. It’s a fascinating and yet morbid matter.

contemplations

What is repentance? Repentance is a turning of the heart towards God, propelled by God’s Spirit. It is a matter of our disposition towards God: our natural mental and emotional outlook, mood, and attitude towards God. In repentance, our disposition towards God is transformed. While we were once cold, bitter, and calloused towards God, we become concerned with God (we “seek His face”). Indifference to God and His ways evolves into a concern and care for God and His ways. I believe this is what repentance is all about.

Where does lifestyle change fit in? An ill disposition towards God produces a rebellious lifestyle indifferent to God’s desires for how we live. A renewed disposition, however, produces a lifestyle within us where we seek to live according to His desires for our lives because we generally care. We are placing God’s interests for our lives above our own. The heart of repentance is not in behavioral change: it is in a renewed disposition towards God. The reality or genuineness of our repentance is evidence in our lives: “Are we seeking to conform to the patterns of God’s ways or to the patterns of the world? Are we seeking to honor Him in the lives we live, or are we seeking to honor our own wishes, wants, and desires? Are we seeking to live in ways that reflect that status of our identity as God’s people, or are we seeking to live in ways that reflect the identity of those without Christ whom are perishing?” Note that the word seeking is used over-and-over. No one conforms to God’s behavioral desires perfectly. The issue lies within our true intentions—sometimes we can convince ourselves we are intent on doing something but really we are just deceiving ourselves. Our intentions speak to the reality—or lack thereof—of our repentance.

How does one come to repentance? Repentance is a gift of God: God works on our hearts through the teaching of the gospel, convicting us and prodding us towards repentance. However, the choice is ultimately ours. No one is forced into repentance. God does not draw us to Him so loudly that we cannot resist, nor does He draw us so quietly that we have to struggle to hear His voice. Mankind has the freedom to choose God or reject Him. In choosing God, a metaphysical shift takes place in our lives: as we turn our hearts to God in faith, the Holy Spirit enters into us and transforms us from the identity of “those whom are perishing” to “the holy and blameless children of God.”

is God disappointed with us?

As I was lying in bed the other night, I contemplated: “Is God disappointed in me?” All of us sin, and I was wondering if God is disappointed in us when we sin. I thought to myself, “What is disappointment?” Disappointment, I believe, is what one feels when another person does not live up to their expectations. When we are disappointed with God, it is because God does not live up to our expectations. When God is disappointed in us, it’s because we haven’t lived up to His expectations for our lives. “Is God disappointed with us when we sin?” I think the answer is, simply: “No.” God isn’t an idiot. He knows that we live in a world where we still wage war with our sinful desires; we are caught in a plane where heaven intersects the sinful world in which we live, and Christians live right at that intersection. We are torn between following God and obeying Him and between following our own wishes and desires and fulfilling our own selfish wants. God knows that we exist in such a state, and He doesn’t expect us to always choose the path that is in line with what He wants. He wishes we would always choose such a path, but He knows we won’t. Like I said, He isn’t an idiot. He knows we sin. He knows we sin all the time, every day, in ways we recognize and in ways we do not. We live lives where we want to God’s will, but we also want to do our own will. God knows we are made of dirt, and though He would like it if we were totally abandoned to Him and never sinned, He knows that’s not going to happen—at least not until we dwell with Him in the new creation.

another day at the Hilltop Cafe

Most days at the coffee shop are generally uneventful. But today wasn’t too bad. It started off with Isaac and Katie arguing about perceptions of reality—and Isaac’s quote, “This occurrence of reality is the most annoying occurrence of reality that I have ever experienced” still makes me laugh. Manny came up to the bar and asked for an in-house water with a side of cocaine. I gave him his water and said, “Your cocaine will be at the end of the bar.” A few moments passed, and I called him over. He leapt off the couch and curiously approached, only to find Katie bent over and snorting his fresh cocaine (thanks to twin packets of coffee sweetener):

Isaac and Katie left, and so I amused myself behind the bar. Several friends came by, and we chatted. Boredom began to overcome me, so I swiped my card through the register and ordered an iced caramel macchiato. Five minutes later, I produced a fantastic drink, which Cassie displays so vibrantly:

The Hilltop can be fun, every now and then.

a pinball in a pinball machine

We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us. We are like ignorant children who want to continue making mud pies in a slum because we cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a vacation at the sea. We are far too easily pleased. – C.S. Lewis

My search for joy has carried me everywhere. For two years it has eluded me, though it has been present temporarily with certain situations. It seems that joy, for a boy like me, is something untouchable, something unable to be experienced. I live in a world of turmoil, not peace; depression, not joy; shame and regret, not happiness. I search hungrily for joy, and I find that my search is akin to that of a pinball in a pinball machine: bouncing everywhere, backward and forward, side-to-side, searching for that which will bring me joy. I turn to little escape and mini-joys to try and ease the brokenness. I seek shelter in shanties and cardboard boxes while I freeze in the drenching rain of my own ignorance: my ignorance to the reality that I have been bouncing around for so long and nothing of value has been discovered.

God offers me joy. He offers it to me. Do I believe this? I mean, do I really believe this? All of my prayers for as long as I can remember have been cemented in suffering, shame, and regret. How often has praise flowed from my lips? How often have tears of joy streamed down my cheeks? I can’t remember the last time that happened, though tears of sorrow I remember all too well (I cried some last night).

I look at my life and realize where it could be if I hadn’t screwed it up. And I feel like I have nowhere to go. Everything I loved was taken from me, and I played a huge part in that. I was stupid and ignorant and went against all knowledge and intuition, and I paid dearly for it. Now I feel like I have no future. How could life get better?

But God still offers joy.
God offers me a future.
God offers me transformation.

And I continue bouncing around like a pinball in a pinball machine.

the way the world works

My friend Emily and I were talking about how romantic relationships work. She thinks that it is a person’s personality that attracts you to him or her, and then you find their physical appearance attractive; I think that it is the physical appearance that attracts you to a person, and their personality can make or break that attraction. I would love it if she were right, that personality stood on a pedestal above physical appearance. But I have seen the way the world works, I have seen how relationships form, and I know that’s not the case. It is wishful dreaming. Relationships don’t work that way. If you want a better chance at being in a relationship, you need to be the kind of person who is physically attractive and not physically repulsive. Maybe I’m just shallow, but I prefer to view myself as being realistic.

Last night I dreamt that she came up to me at school and asked how I was doing. It was good to talk to her. I miss talking to her. She asked me, “Are you almost over what happened?” I replied, “Yeah. Almost.” Things are getting better. They’re still tough, God knows… But things are getting better. I’ve been talking with an old friend—Lindsey—who randomly called me up the other day, and we’re going through the same thing. She’s a big encouragement. Everything will be okay. Life goes on. Take a deep breath. There is hope. Yes: hope reigns.

I was reading through my journals, what I wrote during the days she and I were together. I was a good boyfriend. I really was. I treated her right. I tried to make her happy. We had our problems, like every relationship does, and those problems got the best of us. But I wasn’t a bad man. I wasn’t a bad boyfriend. I gave her the world, or at least tried to. She was my reason for breathing. “You’re a good, decent guy, Anth,” my little sister told me. “I know all of your deepest, darkest secrets [she does] and I still know for a fact that you’re a good, decent guy. One of the last ones out there.”

life continues...

Sarah and I went to Rabbit Hash yesterday. It’s a small town in Kentucky along the Ohio River, a hotspot for bikers, with a dinky general store and a hick bar. They actually elected a dog as mayor! We then went back to her place, and I met her dementia-ridden grandpa. He is crazy and hilarious. He always talks about the war, and he is convinced I’m a 16-year-old lady. I think it might be my long hair? I stayed there till 1:30 in the morning and didn’t get back to campus till 2:00.

I went over to Isaac’s place today. We sat on his back porch and looked out at the city as the first storm-clouds rolled in (right now we’re in a thunderstorm watch; there are tornadoes stretching all the way from Michigan to Kentucky). We talked about God, philosophies of life, girls, and everything in between. It was a good time.

Amanda is home for the weekend. I get to see her tomorrow!

I am trying to stay optimistic despite the pain. It’s hard some days, especially at night, in the quiet, where memories slip into my mind and wreak havoc. I escape through my writing, but that escape only lasts until my brain fries for lack of ideas.

I want to move to Alaska, live there for a year, then come back. Take a break from life. But we can’t do that, now, can we?

i am tired

A month ago, we sat on the swings; I held her hand in mine, and we looked into each other’s eyes, and there was something special. Something wonderful. I felt at peace.

We haven’t really talked since then. Why? I have no idea. She just started ignoring me and refusing to hang out with me. I have tried: I have called her, invited her to hang out, tried to spend time with her, but she always makes excuses. If there is something going on with her friends, she purposefully doesn’t tell me, and then lies about it later.

I found her yesterday. She was sitting in the coffee shop with a boy. I walked over, started talking. She turned her head, lowered her eyes, refused to make eye contact. Later they were sitting at a table with several people. I came over to talk. No one acknowledged me. The boy said, “You’re not invited.” I stormed off campus with Trista, and I hollered and shouted as we drove down the interstate.

I am already having a rough time. I don’t need it to be compounded by crap like this. What is someone supposed to do, in such a situation, when the people you considered good friends all turn their backs to you? My entire social life has been turned upside-down, and I feel frightened, insecure, alone. I know I need to make new friends. Friends who won’t abandon me. But all the groups at C.C.U. have already formed, and it’s nearly impossible to penetrate them. People are content where they’re at… including the ones who drop-kicked me out of their lives.

I am tired of being abandoned.
I am tired of being alone.

Philippians 1.21-27: the greatest act of self-sacrifice

Much of St. Paul’s letter to the Philippians deals with the kind of lifestyle that Christians are called to live. Using himself, Timothy, Epaphroditus, and Christ as prominent examples, Paul speaks of the Christ-like life being summed up in this: “self-sacrifice.” “Self-sacrifice” is, simply, putting other peoples’ interests and needs before your own. The greatest act of self-sacrifice, for Christ, was giving himself up on the cross. Crucifixion is a horrible—perhaps the worst!—way of death that mankind has ever created. But for Paul, self-sacrifice is just the opposite: staying alive.

In this text, we see that Paul hints at saying, “I’m suicidal.” And who can blame him? He has gone through much suffering—his life has been a physical and emotional hell—and now he has been imprisoned for two years. The thought of St. Paul being suicidal is discomforting. In our modern world, we view suicide as the ultimate sin. Some Christians even go so far as to say that suicide is the “unforgivable sin” that Jesus speaks of in the gospels (though I disagree). But suicide was not looked at in a negative light in the culture in which Paul lived. In St. Paul’s word, suicide is honorable, a conquering of the passions. The idea of suicide being the unforgivable sin has no biblical basis; St. Paul does not view suicide as a straight ticket to hell. In fact, he never even hints that it is a heinous sin!

Paul says that he is torn between life or death, torn between continuing to live and dying and going to heaven to be with Christ. The words he uses to describe his anxiety over the matter are emphatic: he is being ripped apart with these polar-opposite desires. And yet he decides to not take his own life, to put aside his own desires and to continue living despite his pain. Why? For the sake of others. This is a great act of self-sacrifice: continuing to live when you want to end it all, embracing life when you would rather embrace death. When you want to live, giving your life up for others is the greatest act of self-sacrifice. When you want to die, staying alive for the sake of others is the greatest act of self-sacrifice.

christian identity and christian ethics

Christianity is not about living by a new set of rules or embracing a new set of behaviors. It is about a renewed friendship with God. When we become friends with God by committing ourselves to Jesus, we are given a new identity. The New Testament writers (such as the St. John and St. Paul) refer to our new identity with a variety of terms: “children of God,” “friends of God,” being “in Christ,” “in the Spirit,” and being made “new creations.” The New Testament writers, by using these terms, speak of a new identity given to us in Christ. Some of the characteristics of this new identity include being made 100% pure, holy, and blameless; being filled with God’s Spirit (the backbone of our new identity is the Holy Spirit in us), being given a new destiny (paradise with God and fellow Christians), and being God’s friend and not His enemy.

Our new identity contrasts sharply with our identity before we were made whole and healed in ChriSt. Paul speaks of our old identity often, such as in Titus 3.3 and Ephesians 2.1-3. While we are now holy in Christ, we were unholy before Christ. While we are now filled with God’s Spirit in Christ, we were devoid of God’s Spirit before Christ. While we are given a new destiny in heaven in Christ, we were doomed to hell without Christ. While we are now God’s friends in Christ, we were God’s enemies before Christ.

“But how do we receive this new identity?” one might ask. God is the one who gives us our new identity; we cannot achieve it (2 Cor 5.18). God does it because of His great love and affection for us (Ephesians 2.4-5). We experience this new identity when God fills us with His Spirit (Titus 3.4-5), and we receive this Holy Spirit by putting our faith in Christ (Gal 3.14). This faith is not mere mental assent to the truth of the gospel; while mental assent is a vital aspect of faith, it is not the whole deal. Even demons mentally assent to the truth of the gospel, but they are vehemently opposed to God. Faith, in the biblical sense, also involves a commitment to and trust in Christ.

When we speak of Christian ethics, the question is not “How does a Christian behave?” but “How does a Christian reflect his or her new identity?” It is critical to understand that our identity is not founded on how we live our lives, and how we live or lives does not make or break our identity in Christ. By the way we live our lives, we are not made more holy or less holy than any other Christian—holiness is a status (a gift!) bestowed on us by God; it is not attained or rejected by our own behaviors. Does this mean that we are free to live however we please? No! That is a false doctrine called antinomianism, the belief that we are free to do whatever we want if we are in Christ, and that is wrong, just plain wrong. The New Testament writers, while straying from the right-wing of legalism, are careful to avoid this left-wing radical theology. St. Paul tells us in Romans 6, “Should we keep on sinning...? No way!” With this in mind, we can look at Christian ethics in this light: “Christian Ethics is not about how a Christian should live, but how a Christian reflects his or her identity in Christ.”

St. Paul shouts in the New Testament, “Live out your new identities!” In Colossians 3, St. Paul compares our old identity with our new identity, and he tells us to cast off all the ways of living that reflect the old identity and to embrace the ways of living that reflect our new identity in Christ. The foundation of Christian ethics is given in Colossians 3.14: love. Jesus’ commandment to love God and love others sums up how a person is to reflect friendship with God: by being kind, compassionate, caring, and self-sacrificial for others, putting other peoples’ interests before one’s own.

Living out our new identities is difficult. A prime biblical example of this is in 1 Corinthians. The Corinthian Christians have a new identity in Christ, but they continue to live out their old identity by sleeping around in the streets of Corinth. Sexual promiscuity was a big deal in Corinth, and slutty girls were often called “Corinthian gals.” After confronting the Corinthians for their sin, St. Paul exclaims, “You can’t do this anymore! This isn’t your new identity! Live out your new identity!”

As we live our lives daily, we must look at our actions, thoughts, etc. and ask: “Is this a reflection of my old identity before Christ or my new identity in Christ?” If it is a reflection of our old identity, we must cast it off. This is a gruesomely difficult task. St. Paul himself struggled with it. In Romans 7, he speaks of his own struggles with living out his old identity vs. living out his new identity. He confesses that his desire and actions are at odds: he does not do what he wants to do, and he does what he does not want to do. He makes a dazzling statement in v.17: “It is not I who sin, but the sin within me.” This is no copout: he is saying, “The way I live does not define my identity. The way I live does not determine who I really am.” He laments in v.24, “Who shall set me free from this body of death?” The imagery is wonderful: “body of death” evokes an image of St. Paul dragging a corpse on his back, the corpse being the old identity that still wages against him, seeking to reflect itself in his life. He is thankful, though, that his struggles will not last forever: in paradise, his old identity will no longer tug on him. Throughout this passage, Paul acknowledges a harsh reality for Christians: while we have a desire to live out our new identities, our actions often do not match this desire.

We, like the Corinthians and like St. Paul, will struggle with living out our new identities. But even though it will be hard, we are called to live out our new identities. So I leave you with this contemplative question. Look at your life. Examine your actions, your thoughts, the way you live your life. “Which identity are you reflecting by your behaviors?” If you discover behaviors that reflect your old identity—and you will, there’s no way around that—then you must cast them off, and it will be extremely difficult. But take heart: no Christian has ever been free of temptation and free of these same struggles, and we can find encouragement in the fact that our identity is not defined by how we live but by He who lives in us: God Himself.

my week

Monday night I grabbed a midnight dinner with Emily, Mandy, and Susie at “The Anchor Grill” in Covington. Much laughs were shared; it was a wonderful escape. On Tuesday I had an emergency doctor’s appointment in my hometown, then I took a nap with Doogie for a few hours before coming back to campus just in time to go to Trista’s birthday party at Arnie’s Bar & Grill in Newport. I went to Isaac’s apartment Wednesday night, and we drank German coffee and played a German board-game. Very good times. I spent much of today in the coffee shop, just hanging out with people, and it was good. Katie and I went to Michael’s, and they had several cheap and anatomically-correct dinosaur figurines. On Friday Sarah and I went and saw "3:10 to Yuma," and Dad and I saw "The Kingdom" on Saturday. I taught class today at Southwest; I'll put up the lesson tomorrow.

Speaking of dinosaurs, I’ve been really getting back into them lately. I don’t know why I stopped in the first place. I guess I thought that if I were going to go into the ministry I would have to squelch my dinosaur passion. But it’s always been there, always whispering to me in my quietest moments. I dream about them often, and as I drive down the road, I look out the window and imagine herds of dinosaurs grazing alongside the road. When I am sad, I go to my “happy place” (a term Jessie coined): in my happy place, I am in a meadow and riding on the back of a Triceratops. My room right now is flowered with dinosaur figurines (good ones, too, museum-quality), dinosaur books, and I have some dinosaur posters waiting for me at home. I have been piecing together a paper entitled The Periods of the Mesozoic, as well as a research paper on marine reptiles of the Mesozoic, and just finished a small paper on theoretical hunting methods of the theropods. Studying these beautiful, majestic creatures is mesmerizing, breathtaking, and brings me peace. Definitely something to hold onto.

Trista and I had a conversation on Wednesday, I think. She told me, “You want God to make you happy, but you’re expecting the happiness just to plop into your lap. You expect to wake up one morning and be radiant and all-smiles. But that not how God does things. I think God gives you opportunities to be happy, and you have to decide to grasp the opportunities and make the most of them.” I think she’s right. She adds, “How do you think God feels when you’re just lying in your bed moping and groaning for Him to make you happy? He’s probably frustrated because He’s giving you all these opportunities, but you’re disregarding them.” I’ve been seizing the opportunities lately, and I’ve been making the most out of them. Life is getting better.

hope even in the darkest of hours

I miss her. I miss the way we talked about everything and nothing. I miss the way she would scrunch her little nose as she squeezed me tight in those bear-hugs. I miss the way I would hold her hand in the truck as we drove through the streets of night-time Cincinnati. I miss the way we would look into each other’s eyes and just become lost. I miss the way everything was simple and perfect. My life was beautiful… But now that beauty has become a desolate wasteland, and I am no more than a crumpled sun-bleached skeleton abandoned in the shifting sands of time.

Any hope that we would end up together is dashed to pieces like a fishing trawler thrown against the rocks. Perhaps I am taking this too hard. Maybe. Maybe not. Truth be told, she was the first girl I ever really loved (my love for Julie was non-existent, a self-delusion, a flowery infatuation). And now that I have experienced love, and adored it, and now that it has been taken from me (or, rather, I have lost it, whether by my hand or by the hand of another), the pain is deep and searing. It doesn’t make any sense to me why God would make me such a burning hopeless romantic and then let me experience this pain over and over again. No sense whatsoever. But I am being made stronger (though that may be another way of saying, “I’m growing cynical.”). I thought there would be no one better than Julie, but this was torn to pieces with Courtney. And now I am convinced I will not find anyone better than Courtney… But I am, again, deluding myself.

I am not thinking logically. I am letting my heart do all the thinking; where does my brain fit in? I don’t give logic even the slightest foothold. Experience has taught me that life is full of suffering; yet it has also taught me that hope and love and laughter and beauty are found where we least expect them. Courtney came out of nowhere; I totally didn’t expect to date her. There will be another girl, perhaps a girl I know right now, whom I will end up dating, and that relationship may very well make my relationship with Courtney seem pale, dull, uninteresting. Tasteless. And I am deluding myself, too, by painting up Courtney as a Greek goddess: when we were together, there were things about our relationship that I hated, but I was too afraid to say anything. There were times when we were together when I wished it would be different. And now, I’m going to be able to be in a relationship where my mistakes will pave the way to better intimacy. Courtney isn’t perfect (neither am I, God knows that much!), and when I make her perfect in my mind, I am unable to move on. I may have left Courtney a long time ago, but I still cling to the caricature that carries her name.

There is hope, even in the darkest of hours. I cling to that hope amidst my pain, even though this is an excruciating effort and causes me much pain.

struggles

I had a doctor's appointment on Tuesday. My cycles have started flaring up again, insanely at times. I have found myself dancing in the valley of depression, and it’s not a dance I want to keep up. Mom told me, “I can tell when your cycles are going. You think life isn’t worth living, you think you’re spiritually worthless, you think you have no friends and no one who cares, you’re irritable and grouchy, and you don’t smile.” This whole “bipolar disorder” feels like a sad curse. My mom is right, though; when I’m not doing well in dealing with my problems—“You’re not normal,” my aunt compassionately told me—it is easily seen by those closest to me. And those not close to me… Well, they don’t see it, because I hole up in my room and don’t come out. I’ve thought a lot about how this disease affects me when it’s kept unchecked:

I think life isn’t worth living. I find myself locked up in my room, curled under the covers, with tears crawling down my cheeks. It is a feeling I can’t shake and a feeling that haunts me. It’s there when I sleep, overshadowing my dreams; and when I awake, it casts itself over me as a blanket of dread and depression. I go to work, go to class, walk the hallways of my college, my eyes vacant and empty, my face locked in a stoic non-expression. Inside my mind is a whirlwind of cascading, torrential thoughts that won’t let me go. My regrets, my shame, my guilt (maybe I have a guilt complex?) shroud me. All my disappointments and heartbreaks throw themselves in my face, suffocating me. I take long drives at night, and end up at places like Mt. Echo, looking out over the city. I hang my head low and bury it in my hands, and I dread going back to that campus where so many memories—once sweet, now venomous—reign.

I think I am spiritually worthless. Guilt and shame covers me. I hold the Bible in my hands and cannot open it. I try to pray, but I never get past “God…” I hear people talking about God’s goodness, God’s favor towards me, God’s affections for me, how God will come through on His promises… But I look at my life, and see how I’ve failed Him time and time again, how I’ve royally screwed-up the greatest gift He gave me. And I think, God may be good… But not toward me. God may extend favor towards His children… but not towards me. God may love other people… but His love for me is a burden. God will come through on His promises for others… but when it comes to me, I’ve messed it up too much. I crave and hunger for an intimate, rich, and deep friendship with Him, but I don’t take the steps to experience it because I think it’s not what He wants. I begin to believe that He wants nothing to do with me, and I have no part in His kingdom.

I think I have no friends and no one who cares. I wrote in my journal some time ago, “All my friends have abandoned me… They’ve cast me out of their life as if I were a contagious leper.” Yes, people who were my best friends two years—one year!—from now have moved on. Some have married and moved away. Others have just up and abandoned our friendship. And others have moved to different groups and given me, for lack of a better word, the backhand. And I find myself wanting deep relationships again. But I have many friends, and as time goes on, some of these friendships will become deeper, richer, and more beautiful. I will be able to share my life with these people and they will share their lives with mine. And as for no one caring, there are still those who care: my family, for instance. My mom is constantly worried sick for me. My dad calls all the time to see how I’m doing. My sister is always texting me and calling me.

I am irritable, grouchy, and I don’t smile. And who can blame me, when I am locked in the prison of the cycles? When these cycles come, when I dwell in the pits of despair and hopelessness, why should I smile? Why should I pretend like everything is okay? Sure, I do pretend in public. I put on a fake smile… But my eyes always lie. And I am quiet, sullen. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to be talked to. Most of the time I just want a big bear hug, someone to tell me—and mean—that they really care.

My doctor thinks that much of my current depression stems from the situation I find myself in: the girl I loved dating another boy on campus. It is very difficult to deal with. She leaned over her table, folded her hands, told me, “I was young once. I had my own fair share of heartbreaks. They’re hell. Everyone goes through them. But as time goes on, it gets easier to deal with them.” And, in all honesty, dealing with the whole “Courtney” thing is easier than my break-up with Julie nearly a year ago. After Julie, I became suicidal for several months (much of this due to emotional baggage received from childhood that came to the surface during the days of the breakup). I liked Courtney much more than I liked Julie; I loved Courtney, and I didn’t love Julie. And yet it is thanks to Julie that I can survive Courtney; in time, things will be okay. My friend Trista knows what’s going on, and I told her, “I’m glad that Courtney is happy. I really am. I think what bothers me is that God so earnestly answered her prayers and made her happy… I just want God to answer my prayers every once in a while, and to let me be happy. I haven’t been happy in so long. I forget what being happy is like.”

the hunting methods of theropod dinosaurs

In 1881, the American fossil hunter Charles Marsh suggested that all meat-eating dinosaurs (the carnivores of the family group dinosauria) be lumped together; he deemed this grouping “theropods,” meaning “beast-feet.” The first theropods appeared ca 225 million years ago, in the Triassic Period, the first period of the Mesozoic Era. They survived till about 65 million years ago, when the dinosaurs vanished—giving them a lifespan of 160 million years. Some scientists believe that birds are the descendents of the theropod dinosaurs; if this is true, then the lifespan of the theropods is, in actuality, around 230 million years. Most theropods were lightly-built with large heads; they had bladelike teeth with serrated edges; they had long, slender legs giving them speed greater than most dinosaurs; most had long, curved claws that tapered to tips, especially on the hands; and they had air pockets in their skulls and vertebrae, as well as an extra joint in the mandible that allowed them to eat large pieces of food.

Theropods can be divided into two groups: the ceratosaurs and the tetanurans. The ceratosaurs are found in the late Triassic and early Jurassic periods, though some Cretaceous carnivores are placed in this group; the ceratosaurs are identified by four functional fingers on each hand and clawed toes on the foot. Some popular ceratosaurs are Dilophosaurus and Ceratosaurus. The tetanurans is the larger group of theropods, incorporating all theropods not found in ceratosauridae; they are identified by three-clawed fingers on the hands and three large toes on the feet, each foot having a smaller toe on the inside of the foot. Tetanurae further divides into two sub-groups, the carnosaurs and the coelurosaurs. The carnosaurs are a group containing most of the large tetanurans (i.e. Allosaurus and Sinoraptor), though, ironically, one of the largest—though not the largest—theropod (Tyrannosaurus) is placed with the coelurosaurs. The coelurosaurs contained most of the Cretaceous theropods, and included strange theropods such as the dromaeosaurs, the ornithomimosaurs, and the oviraptors.

One of the finest tools for thinking about theropod hunting techniques is our observations of the hunting methods of modern-day carnivores. In the world of terrestrial carnivores (a term referring to animals that derive more than 95% of their food in the form of vertebrate flesh), there are three major predatory tactics: ‘grapple-&-slash’, ‘grapple-&-bite’, and ‘pursuit-&-bite’. It is not unreasonable to assume that carnivorous dinosaurs employed these tactics against their prey (such as Apatosaurus, Triceratops, or Stegosaurus).

Grapple-&-Slash is a hunting tactic used by modern-day cats. Animals using this method have highly-compressed, recurved, blade-like claws on their hands and feet; their hind limbs are powerful, and their tails are used as dynamic stabilizers allowing quick-turns in ambushing prey. These hunters do not chase their food; they ambush it. The animals lie in wait, then ambush the prey when it draws close; after a quick chase, they latch onto the animals with their forelimbs; the prey is then taken down with a combination of slashes from the forelimb, disemboweling kicks with the hind limbs, and/or suffocation with the mouth. These hunters usually aren’t very fast in long runs, but yet are excellent sprinters—perfect for ambushing. When it comes to carnivorous dinosaurs, many paleontologists believe that dromaeosaurs (including such dinosaurs as Velociraptor and Deinonychus) employed this tactic (Jack Horner, a renowned paleontologist, advanced this idea). Contrary to what “Jurassic Park” will tell you, however, the dromaeosaurs probably did not make the majority of their kills with the “killer claws” on their feet; these claws were probably used to latch onto the prey (like a mountaineer’s hook) while making the killing slashes with their forelimbs. Dromaeosaurs, in general, fit this type of hunting method: they have short and stout legs, their claws and the sickle-claws on their feet match the proportions of these modern hunters; and their tails probably acted as dynamic stabilizers.

Grapple-&-Bite is a method of hunting that is employed by modern raptorial birds, who swoop down on their prey and carry them into the air while killing the victims with their jaws or beaks. Animals using this method are characterized by claws that are curved but fairly round in the cross-section; the claws are at the end of powerful limbs. Like the “Grapple-&-Slash” hunters, these are ambushers. The hunting tactic is as follows: wait in ambush, then suddenly attack, seizing the prey with the forelimbs, and killing the prey with bites to the neck or back, then dragging the prey out-of-reach of other predators. The claws would be used for holding the prey while the jaws are the main killing tool, whereas in the Grapple-&-Slash tactic, the claws are the main dispatching weapon. Many paleontologists believe most large theropods—such as Allosaurus—utilized this tactic: their hand claws are proportionate to that of the raptorial birds, but they were not well-adapted for killing prey (thus they probably used these claws to hold the prey while the jaws did the gruesome work).

Pursuit-&-Bite is a method utilized by modern-day dogs, wolves, hyenas, and cheetahs. These animals do not have claws that are highly-curved, and the claws are rounded in the cross-section; however, they have powerful jaws and necks, long teeth, and relatively long limbs. Using this method, an animal will run down its prey after a fairly long chase, seize the prey in their jaws, and then kill the prey with a combination of biting and suffocation. The claws, if used at all, are used to pin down the prey or keep it stable while the jaws do their thing. Amidst a raging debate over the feeding methods of this dinosaur, many paleontologists believe Tyrannosaurus was a “pursuit-&-bite” hunter: he had proportionally long legs, and his claws were not well-adapted for killing; also, its large head had long, serrated teeth. No doubt his bite pressure was enormous.

Yet, even if in passing, we must give some room to two of the most popular issues regarding theropod hunting techniques: “Were some theropods pack-hunters?” and “Were some theropods scavengers?” Lending credence to the idea that some carnivores were pack-hunters are the fossilized remains of several Coelophysis skeletons at Ghost Ranch in New Mexico, as well as several Allosaurus remains at the Cleveland-Lloyd Query in Utah. Many modern carnivores—such as lions, for example, and cheetahs—hunt in packs. As to the scavenging debate, it must be noted that hunting and scavenging are not exclusive behaviors: many dinosaurs may have been (and probably were) hunters and scavengers (who would pass up a free meal?). Also, the locale and environment of the predator could have played a role in whether or not it was a scavenger or a hunter: in Africa, the region in which a predator lives often determines whether it is a hunter or a scavenger. We can never underestimate how the environment plays a crucial role in animal behaviors. And as for Tyrannosaurus, the debate “Hunter or Scavenger?” continues to rage on. It is not unreasonable to believe that this dinosaur would have made kills of its own and eaten carcasses of animals it stumbled across.

When we talk of the predatory methods of dinosaurs, we run into a bit of a problem: all we have are fossils. We cannot study these dinosaurs up-close. We cannot study their behaviors, their social organizations, or the way they interacted with their environment. In the end, we can take the best guesses we can and humbly acknowledge that we could be—and, to an extent, probably are—wrong.