just a thought

Our culture is inundated with the pursuit of success and the achievement of our dreams (whatever they may be). This "pursuit of happiness" is generally done without any regard to the people whom we become in the process of the pursuit. We may be successful, as we measure success, and we may do what we've always wanted to do; we may accomplish our dreams and find ourselves dwelling in the manor of the prosperity of our deepest ambitions. But what kind of people will we be when all is said and done? More often than not, the pursuit of success leads to dehumanization, the deepening corruption of our hearts, minds, and strength (indeed, our very souls), so that that which is human within us is but a spark, an echo and a whisper, a faint voice heard in the quietest of moments: "What have we become?" What if we paid attention not to our dreams and ambitions, to what we want to make out of our lives, but, rather, to the kind of people we are and the kind of people we are becoming? What if, instead of making our dreams our greatest ambitions, we focused our energies on becoming more and more human: more loving, more just, and more merciful people? How would the world be any worse off? How would we be any worse off? Just a thought.

snow storm!

The first snow storm of winter came through yesterday. When I woke up, a meager amount of snow had fallen, but nothing to worry about. I was able to enjoy my Sunday tradition of Subway while watching TV ("Dexter" this time), and by the time I went to work, it started snowing again. It snowed all during my 3-11:00 shift, and seeing as the ice trucks didn't begin making their rounds till about 10:00, the roads got pretty awful. Needless to say, we weren't too busy at work. Half of us went home early, and two of us stayed behind to be able to close the store when that time came. We finished all the tasking, and I just hung around behind the bar. We had a handful of customers throughout the night, mostly regulars whom I was able to talk to thanks to the lack of work needing to be done. We even did a Verona coffee tasting with some of our customers. My PDP helped on that one. The roads on the home stretch were pretty awful, and I slipped and slid every which way. But I made it home okay--albeit the journey taking me twice as long as usual--and was able to enjoy some hot tea before bed.

Today I worked an easy 10-4:00, and then Dylan and Tyler came over. We ran to the grocery for some food, and then we had an amazing dinner: sauteed mushrooms, pan-seared steaks, and baked red potatoes. Not to mention some good ol' Great Lakes Christmas Ale. The evening afterwards passed as usual: Mario-Kart and television. This time we watched the season two finale of "Dexter". It's nice to be able to stay up somewhat late, because I don't have to go in till 2:00 tomorrow. 2-10:30. What a wretched shift! At least I'll be working with great people (though in all honesty, I like everyone I work with, so that's a guarantee every shift). I have Wednesday off, which will be filled with sushi and hopefully finishing the next chapter in "Re:framing Repentance." I work Thursday-Saturday morning and hope to go down to Cincinnati Saturday evening to see a bunch of friends. And then there's the Christmas shopping followed by the Christmas chaos, driving all over southern Ohio and northern Kentucky visiting segments of our disjointed family. At least it will be soon be over, and then we'll spend months locked in whining snow and blistering winds before spring arrives. Ah, spring... I'm already longing for her.

the dayton days [45]

Monday. I spent the day down in Cincinnati: Mandy, Blake, Ams & I formed a circle in Blake's room and laughed our asses off. "You say some pretty weird shit sometimes," Blake said. "I feel like I need a pen and paper when you're around, to record all the crazy shit you say." We grabbed dinner at Thai Taste--seafood Pad Thai, yum!--and played Wii back at the Claypole House. I got back home around 11:30.

Tuesday. We got more snow overnight, and Mom had a 2-hour delay. I had Subway for lunch, spent the afternoon watching movies: "Legion" and "Congo". Dylan came over, and we got sushi at Kabuki and ice cream from DQ. We ended the night by throwing my Ka-Bar at a pumpkin in the snow.

Wednesday. Mom & I had China Garden for lunch. Mom's girls came over for bible study. We had tea and played with Maebe. They left and I spent the evening studying 1 Peter with tea and candlelight.

Thursday. I worked 12-7:00. I lost three pounds over the Thanksgiving holiday: that's crazy! That's a good buffer zone for Christmas meals. The DLM girl came into work for the first time in a long while. I made an excuse to talk to her. She definitely flirted with me, and called me out the moment she saw me: "Starbucks Boy!" I told her I hadn't seen her at DLM lately, but then disclaimed, "Not that I go looking for you..." She rolled her eyes, quite teasingly, and said, "Sure..." with a smile. And before I could get her name, a customer came up asking for help. DLM girl waited for me to finish before saying bye. She gave me her work schedule this weekend, so I may make an excuse to go see her. A girl I met on OKCupid, Erica, is super lonely and depressed, not looking for a relationship, just wanting a friend. I figure I might as well indulge her, she seems cool enough.

Friday. We had new windows installed all throughout the house. Dewenter came over, and we played Wii and picked up some pizza and beer for Mom and went to the store for shelves. We assembled the shelves and bathed in high school nostalgia. 

Anthony Day '11! Ha, remember that? Jobst came over this evening in his new car. We grabbed sushi at Kabuki--salmon roe, tuna roll, and an assortment of sushi a la carte--and then got beer--Great Lakes Christmas Ale!--from DlM, but sadly DLM girl wasn't there. The waitress at Kabuki very obviously flirted with me: she brought me free samples, and we talked a lot as she kept coming by the table, and she invited me to join her at BW3s for beer and to watch the U.F.C. game. Her boss came by and scolded her for not doing her job. Haha. 

Sunday. Some snow fell overnight. I worked 3-11:00. More snow came during the evening, and we got around 4" by the time I left work. The roads turned to shit so we were dead; the store was a borderline ghost town. I drove 20 mph the whole way home. I had some tea and went to bed.

an echo of my past: December 2007

“Infractus Fatum”

Broken Destiny

He stands and watches her walk away,

her arms around the one

    who told him, “Everything will be okay.

    God has a plan.”

He watches the streetlights shine,

the light dancing through her beautiful hair

    “It wasn’t supposed to end up like this.

    Where did I go wrong?”

He watches her walk away, and with her

everything he always wanted leaves him,

    and he falls upon the ground, broken and

    beaten, the life streaming from his heart.

She disappears into the shadows, but he can

still hear her laugh, can still feel her breath,

    can still see her eyes as they peer into his

    and speak: “I want to be with you forever.”

A quiet rain begins to fall, the water running

between his shaking fingers, washing away

    all his hopes and dreams, carrying away

    everything he always longed for.

The rain grows harder, soaking his clothes,

and the thunder crackles, but all he can hear

    is her sweet voice: “I like you and I feel like

    I always will. Let’s make memories together.”

The tears mix with the rain, and his breaking heart

finds its resonance in the booming thunder

    “It wasn’t supposed to end up like this.

    Where did I go wrong?”

He does not want answers. He does not want comfort.

He does not want your theology, nor your philosophy.

    He wants one thing, the thing that haunts him.

    He wants her back. He wants to hold her, comfort her,

    tell her he loves her and that he always will.

“I love her,” he weeps in the middle of the street.

“I love her. I want her. I just want her.”

    He wants to run his fingers through her hair,

    wants to kiss her and cherish her and

    give her the world. He wants her to know

    that real love exists.

But she has left him. She has taken his heart and

wrenched it in two. “I didn’t want to,” she said.

    “I didn’t want to hurt you.” But you still hurt me.

    You took my dreams and stomped them underfoot.

His heart burns. It aches. He loved her. He loves her.

He will always love her. All he wants is her.

    Now she runs off with his best companion.

    Now he has taken that which he loved the most.

    All the quiet laughs, the gentle moments,

    all are lost into the hands of betrayal.

The evening has turned to night. The rain falls.

    “It wasn’t supposed to end up like this.

    What did I do wrong?”

His hands unfurl and he holds it in his palm.

The blade glints in the dim glow of the streetlights;

    the water runs down the serrated edges

    and the steel sparkles with the flashes

    of lightning.

“It wasn’t supposed to end up like this.

What did I do wrong?”

    His life has fallen apart. His love has abandoned him.

    His friend—the only one there for him—has betrayed him.

    His god has seemingly turned his back on him.

“My future is darkness, despair, hopelessness, resignation.

For what purpose do I exist, but to suffer with each passing moment?”

    He takes the hilt in his hands, twists the blade towards his heart.

    His heart has already been broken; it lies in pieces behind his ribs.

    What harm can a mere physical blade do? Her words

    have pierced him like a thousand burning arrows.

To some, death is bitter, an enemy, a gall.

To others it is the sweet song of life, a deliverance, a gift.

    The blade drips with water; it will be easy

    to pierce the clothes.

He looks up to see if she may return, daring beyond all logic

that she may come back, fall upon her knees,

    and say what she said just last night:

    “I want to be with you forever.”

        But no one comes.

            He is utterly alone.

He closes his eyes. He sees all their memories rushing him

at once, a mosaic of life and love and happiness—

    a forgotten existence. He sees her

        hair blowing in the wind on that fall trip to the park; sees her

        dimples when she smiles at his innocent jokes; sees

        the way her cheeks sparkle in the evening sun; sees

        the quiet dances of her eyes sending messages of adoration.

    He feels her fingers wrapping around his own, feels the

        warmth of her embrace; feels

        her breath tingling against his neck; feels

        her dove-soft hair tickling his cheek.

One thrust, and it will all be over. One thrust

and the memories will be gone. One thrust, and all the

    suffering, the pain, the agony, the despair,

    all the hopelessness, the futility, the resignation

    will be gone… vanquished as his blood runs between

    the cobblestones and disappears in the rain.

His arms are shaking. Excitement? Anxiety? Fear?

He has no other desire in the world, but to

    plunge the knife deep down into his heart,

    to break the cycle of his life, a life

    of heartache, heartbreak, of constantly and always

    never being good-enough, cool-enough, good-looking-enough,

    never talented enough, cute enough, never smart enough,

    never wonderful enough, never tall and dark and handsome.

    This is an end to all the inadequacies that scar his own reality.

His fingers wrap tight around the hilt; the blade sings sweetly in his ears.

“I can’t go on,” he weeps. “I can’t go on. I can’t go on…”

    He just wants to love and be loved, to cherish and be cherished,

    to understand and be understood, to comfort and be comforted,

    to be there and have her be there for him.

    Not anyone will do; she is the one, the only one.

        She made his heart quicken, his pulse jump,

        his muscles go limp. Now she has made

            his heart fall to pieces,

            his pulse shall die, and now

            she has made the muscles poise

            for the only refuge he can fathom.

He looks towards heaven, into the flashing lightning and the thunder.

He cries out for deliverance, but there is no answer.

    The angels have shut their mouths.

    Even God has turned His back on him.

His cheeks are pale with the pallor of dejection, and

his eyes see a future of bleak shadows and whispered

    regrets. His cries come from the deep wells

    of a broken heart engraved forever with the

    deep stains of long-lost love:

        “I want her. All I want is her. I just want to be with her.”

        He would do anything for a second chance.

            It will not come.

        He wants to be with her badly.

            But she turned her back on him.

            She left him in the cold, naked and shivering,

                exposed to all the mockeries of romance.

            She took his heart, crumbled it in her fingers,

                and spit upon the remnants.

            He would have given her the world:

                but she took the world away from him.

He takes a deep breath, the raindrops in the air filling

his lungs, and the world spins to a halt:

    the raindrops hang suspended, reflecting

        the streetlights, a panorama of diamonds;

    the lightning bolts across the sky hover,

        their electricity spinning webs in the clouds;

    his heart holds to its last beat,

        the meaningless blood in his veins

        drawing their last breaths.

A deep serenity embraces him, promising him

the only security he has ever tasted.

    With a single wrench of the muscles,

    the blade pierces his shirt and enters

    his flesh, the serrated edges chewing

    flakes of bones from his ribs before

    the heart is torn in inexorable agony.

He pitches forward, limbs suddenly weak,

and he stares at the ground, the puddles

    reflecting the grotesque mask upon his face:

        a mask of disenchantment,

        a mask of resolution,

        a mask of the only hope he knows.

He falls onto his back and finds himself sprawled

in the middle of the street, the blood soaking

    his shirt and mixing with the rain.

    The raindrops feel cool upon his burning face.

    His fingertips tingle; his face goes pale.

He closes his eyes and lets the strength drip

from his soul. All he can think about is how

    the knife does not cause him as much pain

    as the words she spoke to him:

        “I don’t love you anymore.

        I don’t want to be with you.

        I want to be with your best friend.”

He closes his eyes, and he embraces the

quietness, the darkness, and the serenity.

    All the memories, the pains, and the

    weeping is forgotten as he shuts down.

He lies on the street: broken, bloodied,

marred, and maimed. But now he is truly

    alive. 

saturday sushi

My good friend Jobst came into town and treated me to sushi at Kabuki down the road from my house. He demanded that I go all-out, so I got the sushi deluxe. Twenty dollars of tasty goodness (and we also had, not pictured, mussels). The deluxe came with a spicy tuna roll and several different pieces of sushi over rice. Crab, lobster, tuna, salmon, yellow tail, shrimp, calamari, and something else (snapper, maybe?). We were also served some salmon roe (salmon eggs), but they tasted like the Atlantic ocean. Not too good. Everything else, however, was amazing. Our waitress was really nice, too. She kept hanging around our table, chatting us up, and she brought us some samples, and we talked about movies and U.F.C. and she invited us out to BW3s next door for some beers and to watch the game, and her manager came over and told her to start doing her job. It was pretty funny. We didn't join her at BW3s (although, to be honest, she was quite cute; and I am quite certain she flirted with me); instead we went to D.L.M. for dessert (creme brule) and beer (Great Lakes Christmas Ale). We went back to my place and sat by the fireplace and drank beers and talked for a while. It was a great time, and it was good to see him.

I've only got two more chapters to finish before the rough draft of "Re:framing Repentance" is complete. Towards the end of a project, I find that my motivation to finish it greatly decreases. Each sentence, each paragraph, each section becomes a chore. I have the chapter outlines all hammered out, and all I need to do is sit down and actually write them. But I have no energy, no motivation. Perhaps this is a good thing? I don't know. I hope to have the rough draft completed before the end of this month, though I doubt that will happen. We'll just see how it pans out. In the meantime I'm changing things up and throwing together a bible study for 1 Peter. It's going to be extremely short (in my opinion), and the best part is how I am getting away from all the hype and controversy around Paul. I can sit back, sigh a breath of relief, and be labeled "orthodox" for a little while. 

Kyle and I were sitting in the cafe a few days ago. He was preparing for a sermon, debating between a text from Lamentations and 1 Peter (he is studying 1 Peter as well, along with J.J.; it's the new hype). He told me my boy N.T. Wright has come under a lot of flack lately, and it's true: folks from both the conservative (namely evangelical reformed) and liberal camps have been taking more and more swings at him as of late. Since I've brought several N.T. Wright books to work to read on my lunch, apparently people think I'm an N.T. Wright junkie, as if I gather my theological convictions from whatever comes from the tip of his pen. While I find Wright enlightening, intriguing, and puzzling, I certainly don't agree with everything he writes. I also read a lot of Wayne Grudem (a champion of Reformed theology), as well as the works of several well-versed arminian theologians. My theological views are derived not from a single scholar but from an array of sources: professors, other books I've read, personal studies (and not to mention biases and personal experiences). Lumping someone into a theological category fails to give respect the dynamic and evolving nature of one's theology. Not to say that I don't do this myself; but we seem to see things when the rifle's scope is pointed at our own hearts. My fingertips are, oddly, freezing. So that's the end of this post.

a good friday night

1 Peter & Jeremiah 29

I've been studying 1 Peter lately, and as my study gets deeper and deeper, I am noticing parallels with this New Testament text and Jeremiah 29 (which my friend and former professor called "the most Christian text of the Old Testament"). The thought of a parallel came to me while working behind the bar, and when I got home, I started doing more research. While I didn't find in any of my books (or online for that matter) a mention of this parallel, I can't help but become more and more certain of it. I'm not saying that Peter (or whoever wrote 1 Peter) used Jeremiah 29 as a template, just that there are some parallels, and within these parallels, vistas are opened from which 1 Peter can be approached from different angles. Indeed, one's telescopic approach of the text may drastically change if the parallel is taken into account hermeneutically (which may or may not be a good idea). Throughout my studies, here are four striking parallels between 1 Peter and Jeremiah 29. 

(a) both 1 Peter and Jeremiah 29 are addressed to exiles

(b) both 1 Peter and Jeremiah 29 are written to exiles in babylonian captivity (a literal captivity in Jeremiah 29 and a symbolic captivity in 1 Peter 5.13)

(c) both 1 Peter and Jeremiah 29 are written to instruct the exiles how to live in exile

(d) both 1 Peter and Jeremiah 29 frame exilic living in the framework of future hope (literal restoration in Jeremiah 29 and eschatological restoration in 1 Peter)

As a side-note, many of the commentaries and references that I've read have downplayed, significantly, the eschatological undertones (a better word may be overtones?) of 1 Peter. Most side-line the issue, perhaps adding it into the margins as an extended footnote; one reference work went so far as to say that the importance of eschatology in 1 Peter is overestimated and of meager importance. I think this is due to how eschatology has become just another segment of Christian doctrine without any real bearing on the present (other than we'd better be good 'cause Jesus will come back at any moment, and he'd better not find us engaging in oral sex). I think this understanding of eschatology is greatly flawed, and that the New Testament is riddled with eschatological importance. Perhaps this conviction is a key reason why I find parallels between 1 Peter and Jeremiah 29?