If I Ran Heaven

If I ran heaven, there would be a special area reserved for angels to sit and listen to people. The Holy Spirit Himself would give in-flight tours of creation, describing the design and function of every living thing with far more detail than the Discovery channel.

If I ran heaven, outside the front gate would be a garden filled with second chances. Everybody would be able to go there, even if it was hard to see some people who could never enter the gate. There would a special detachment of angels to help the Saved deal with the loss of the Unsaved.

If I ran heaven, all questions would be able to be answered, even if they were bad or irrational. With this in place I could discover the location of every pair of my socks, every unsolved mystery, and all of my x-girlfriends' thoughts. There would be an apology wall, where every bad memory could be written and received in public vulnerability. There would be a swimming pool that washed away every broken heart and bad childhood memory.

If I ran heaven, there would be a heavenly Olympics, where participants could race mythical characters such as The Flash, box with Superman, and if they're lucky, wrestle Jesus. And even though we wouldn't have bodies to maintain, there would still be a gym.

If I ran heaven, there would be a school for everything taught by the Lord Himself. We could sit and listen to lectures on His design of nature, language, culture, and chocolate. There would be a comedy show with video presentations on the silliness of humans that far surpasses America's Funniest Home Videos. The Lord Himself would reminisce about His best moments watching the proud and professional suffering hiccups, yawning, goosebumps, and being ticklish.

If I ran heaven, sleep would be an unnecessary, yet popular pastime. I could curl up with most fuzzy and dangerous of animals. All of my past pets would be there, of course, and I could listen to them reminisce about the times we had together. I could meet every animal I hunted and we could fondly recall their last moment on earth together. Somehow I believe early American Indian tribes would help me here.

If I ran heaven, there would a room larger than the earth itself filled with music from every culture on earth. Tribes from every continent would be able to speak their language, cook their food, and host their most honored ceremonies. Parties would be held every day and night in each section, and politics would be banned everywhere. I could spend at least a hundred lifetimes in this room alone.

If I ran heaven, tattoos would be the norm. Dances would be taught on golden floors. Crowns would be given as birthday gifts. And Stella Artois would be on tap.

And finally, if I ran heaven, everything would be so lovely that one would always want to worship. Guys could look at girls and think “Praise God! That is the hottest, most beautiful thing I've ever seen.” And girls could look at guys and think... whatever it is they think about guys. We could sit in front of the Lord's throne and feel every emotion at once. We could look at Him and not be able to blink. We could hug Him and never let go. We could sing in perfect harmony together. We could talk late at night under the stars. We could eat next to Him at every meal. We could smile at Him and He would smile back. We could sneeze and He would say... whatever it is He says when we sneeze.

Slightly Overwhelmed

At present, I am overwhelmed. But I am easily overwhelmed, so this is no more surprising than a sunrise. However, unlike the mechanics of our galaxy, my road to overload is not perfectly predictable. Everything seems to hit at once. Like a prism focusing many colored rays of light, the facets of my life unexpectedly arrive together and blind my once alert senses. In short, when it rains, it pours.

Work, business, and money all seem to tighten the same muscles in my back. I am stressed and easily made tense by them. Since high school, I have maintained the responsible practice of planning my career at least five year in advance. I knew where I would be in five years. Unfortunately, I have revised those plans every five years since then. The finish line keeps moving. So, I have given up on predicting my future place in the world. Instead, I just scratch what needs itching and massage those back muscles in steady rhythm. Like the Irish, it seems I will put up with something being wrong for the rest of my life. It all seems difficult, so does it really matter what’s next?

I used to have a girlfriend to massage these muscles for me, until I realized how much she caused those muscles to tense up in the first place. Since my last serious relationship ended, I have only dated sporadically. The bottom line is this: I want a good girlfriend, but I cannot provide for one. I cannot maintain another spiritual life besides my own. Perhaps I am not ready, but I like to think that I just haven’t found the right person yet. Still, the need for companionship remains. And on those lonely nights when no one is around to talk to, I feel myself wanting to listen and connect with another, just one other. It is a sad support to live without.

Lastly, I have been caught up in the discouraging trends in my church. Christian culture has taken such a bad turn. We have far too many demands of each other and far too many rules to live by. There are many mercies that Christians understand to be rights, and as such, they cry out in injustice and outrage when their comfort is violated. The pressure of a call to holiness combined with the intensity of personal emotions (or “passions” as we call them) makes for an outrageous religious cocktail. So, everyone is gullible to guilt. We are overly-sensitive to shame, and that is shameful. The pulpit is open to the squeakiest wheel and the highest emotional bidder. We are drunk and inept because we have swallowed the pain of these vocal individuals and shat out rules for their safety. We have become a community of God’s children who act like children, and that is neither safe nor Biblical. We are love without power, words without meaning, and friends without benefits. We can neither give nor receive well, not even compliments.

So, at present, the things I usually rely upon for great security are all showing me their back side. I know God has control over my work, business and money, but must this be accompanied by so many crushed opportunities and hopes? After so many slammed doors, one begins to think that when “God opens a window instead” it was meant for me to jump out. And at what point did my family of Christian brothers and sisters become one of children looking to each other for parenting? We are the God-given owners of our own choices, feelings, actions, etc. Nobody is responsible for you anymore, especially not me, and not now.

There comes a point when one must say, “I don’t need this,” and simply walk away for a time. I need to recharge and just take care of myself. It is too late to play guitar or call a friend. The bouncer at my local pub has not seen my face tonight, nor is it likely that he will. So, I am forced to just write, and I guess, just write it off.

Dating in the Late 20s

Nothing inspires celibacy like the current trends in single Christian female circles. It seems like every single Christian girl is simply a good girl waiting for the right good boy to come along and pursue them. They wait and quote scripture to back up their claims that they should be waiting because good boys are supposed to be the Christ-like leaders and take initiative.

Two things:

The fact is, when you find a good boy, he won't seem nearly as attractive as a confident jackass. And even if you do find him, chances are he won't pursue you in the same way the jackass would. There will be no flattering comments about your looks or personality that make you swoon because the good boy is not interested in getting some tail that night. In fact, being a good boy, he probably lacks the assertiveness it takes to hit on you in the first place because his passive “let's all get along” approach has been the chief cause of his popular, good boy status. A good boy who is popular amongst his peers is probably less assertive than a smooth rock. Seriously ladies, show me a good Christian boy and I'll show you a completely spineless wimp. He is probably liked by everybody, loved by some, but only knows about intimacy with pets rather than girls.

I have nothing against good boys except this: they make the rest of us look bad. How am I supposed to compete (yes, competition) against good boys in Christian circles when my virginity is far gone, my church volunteering is minimal, and my church attendance is dependent on the type of coffee and donuts present? I do not part my hair, run an activist club, or meet with the pastor on a regular basis. I guess this somehow makes my faith somewhat questionable. Appearances, as we know, are fully accurate.

Perhaps I am just sick of dating “Suzie Q” Christian girls who expect me to be the good little boy they've always wanted to raise and follow. I am tired of my faith and character being questioned because I do not improve upon the spiritual habits of the girls I date. My last relationship ended because I download illegal music and unethically bought tickets to a movie. Seriously. I have had enough of the “Hello Kitty” type DTR sessions that reiterate how important it is to have Christ as the center of our relationship. Yes, I have read and learned from Dr. James Dobson, Joshua Harris, Dr. Henry Townsend and C.S. Lewis, so what? At what point did you expect me to not have my own faults that you would have to confront? Did you not expect a person on the other end of this relationship? The ideas you received from Sunday school, relationship books, and jealously observing those “I wish I had that” type of relationships simply do not apply to real men.

And while we're at it, let's talk about observing those “I wish I had that” relationships. I cannot comprehend how some Christian girls actually believe some relationships are perfect. It seems like some girls just see a happy couple at church and think “their life is so much better because they have a good guy like that.” Honestly, I do not know what they think. But this would explain why most of the girls I have dated were looking for the ideal relationship rather than experiencing the uncertainty and frequent instability of becoming emotionally intimate with a real boy. That's right, I've got no strings to make me perfectly safe! God made me a real boy years ago. Freak.

Are we not past this immaturity yet? I swear I'm only going dating women who are at least 30 years old. Perhaps I should even start dating divorced women because they might have learned what it's like to introduce a good boy into leadership as a real man. Like me, they've been to the circus and seen the puppet show, so there's no curiosity about sex, living together, praying together, and all of the problems that rise in between. They realize that, unlike what we learned in relationship books, people change for each other in relationships. We adapt. We overcome. We accept and reject faults as best we can. We look past what we cannot control or change, and focus on what we can do and say.

Good little boys shouldn't be what you're looking for. Ideal relationships do not exist. Pure safety and stability is a myth. Let's all grow up like Pinocchio and start to use our own principles to stand on. Get to know people before you judge their character. Judge people by the way they live their lives, not by their passion for following rules and praying before meals. It’s okay to like someone because they are simply attractive. Girls, you have permission to be wise and raw, so take advantage of it. Stop falling for the good boys whom you end up resenting because they weren’t as good as they first appeared. Look for the guys who know themselves, who can present themselves without spin, and who you can trust to be exactly what they tell you.

Reactions and Human Nature

Human nature is reactionary. When we feel pain, we express it. When we are sad, we cry. When we are happy or ticklish, we laugh. When we are sad, we cry. In many ways, this is a good thing. Reactions remind us that we have an animalistic nature and restores roots to our identity. Pain reminds us, as it should, that we are not well. It would be unhealthy for a person to feel pain and not know that they are injured. Pleasure gives us the security of relaxation and enjoyment. This system gives the depressed a reason to hope for recovery and the overly-comfortable a reality check on life. We can use this system to remind us that we are, indeed, human.

However, the real danger of our reactive nature is revealed in social situations. When we are hurt, we automatically lash out at the cause of our pain. When we are offended, we instinctively respond. Like pinball machines without bumpers or controls, our words end up bouncing off of each others’ sensibilities with growing acceleration. Each retort can escalate our emotions and the severity of our thoughtless words.

Reactions in social situations are often referred to as drama. MTV’s “The Real World” is a prime example of the reactionary nature of humanity at work. Drama does not exist without the reactionary nature of people. We build up our offenses like they are a litany of broken sacred traditions. As if Holy Ground itself was trampled upon, we defend our egos and ethics with thoughtless outrage. We justify our responses with pop-culture ideals and rules that our parents taught us earlier in life. It is an attempt to regain control over the source of our pain via exaggerated persuasion or even brute force.

The reactionary nature of human needs self-control in order to function correctly. People need to question whether their sensibilities are worth being offended. Too often people bury their feelings for the sake of appearing polite, but end up feeling insulted or taken advantage of for the sake of another. We are ignorant of our own reactions because we are too focused on appearing to be nice, good people. Instead, we should be sincerely questioning our own standards through the eyes of another person. We must learn that nice behavior does not equal a nice person. A truly healthy person questions their sensibilities when crossed by another, but does not bury their emotions when doing so.

In other words, we need to learn to adapt, much like a child learn to adapt when he touches a hot stove for the first time. If someone is consistently hurtful to us, we should avoid that person with full honesty about why we are doing so. If someone is helpful, we should compliment them because of the pleasure they bring to us. Our reactive nature can be good when it is controlled by an honest and mature adult. We can learn to differentiate between those issues that are worth a reaction and those that are not. In this way, we can avoid the escalation of drama and the type of fights that have forgotten their source.

Teaching to Change the World

According to the State of California, I am a “highly qualified” secondary school teacher with a Professional Clear Teaching Credential. In order to attain this title, I had to complete a credentialing program at a university and pass a state-certified exam in my subject area. My first quarter in the credentialing program included a required course entitled “Introduction to Teaching and Education.” So, sit back and enjoy a truly outrageous story about becoming a teacher.

The “Introduction to Teaching and Education” was a required course was taught by the Director of the Education Department at my university. The Director and Professor was a very vocal African-American female with a rather nifty Boston/Jamaican mixed accent. She had attitude and spunk. The subject-matter of the course was centralized around a book by Jeanne Oakes and Martin Lipton entitled “Teaching to Change the World.” The central premise of this book is that teaching inherently imposes a life-changing education on students. The challenge presented by the authors was this: “How will you change the world through your teaching?” Of course, the authors provided suggestions: Will you relieve systematic oppression of minorities? Will you provide a system of equal education for all? Will you pursue the values of democracy by providing opportunity for every student to receive an education? Will you provide an alternative to inequality in your classroom?

Honestly, I couldn’t relate to this book at all. Do they really think the only reason to be a teacher is to change the world? Was this supposed to be motivating? What about the freakin’ students? But I digress; I read the book from cover to cover. My midterm exam was worth 30% of my grade and was supposed to be a personal summary/response to this book, as well as a personal reflection on the purpose of teaching.

Allow me to summarize the book as I did in my midterm paper. The authors of the book argued against standardized textbooks and tests because they present “set bodies of knowledge” rather than create an atmosphere where knowledge could be “constructed.” As they said, “[National textbooks] helped unify social, moral, political, and educational values, just as their authors had very pointedly intended.” (Oakes and Lipton, 1999, p. 112) Do you sense the critical tone in “very pointedly intended?” They argue that “Intelligence has become a substitute for less acceptable indicators of merit…the technicalities of testing makes it easier to confer benefits on people who are members of traditionally powerful and favored groups.” (Oakes and Lipton, 1999, p. 56) They further argue that texts should not have central social, moral, political, or educational values because such views would be biased: “Today’s reformers maintain, therefore, that the hallmarks of the modern curriculum—absolute certainties and universal truths as mined from the depths of white, Western culture—are weak and limiting guidelines for deciding what and how students will learn in the twenty-first century.” (Oakes and Lipton, 1999, p. 120) I found it ironic that I was learning to teach U.S. History and the Constitution of the United States as “weak and limiting guidelines” “mined from the depths of white, Western culture.”

The authors presented an alternative solution to passing on these white, Western cultural values: “By employing reforms typically called a ‘multicultural curriculum,’ teachers acknowledge many cultures, help the less powerful acquire the cultural tools of the dominant Anglo-American culture, and create a democratic forum for exploring conflict and oppression.” (Oakes and Lipton, 1999, p. 129) A forum of exploring conflict and oppression was the solution to our current system of “set bodies of knowledge” as created by “white, Western culture.” To them, this was “democratic.” The authors suggested that multicultural curriculum would support an even greater goal in education: relieving systematic oppression, eliminating the socially elite, and creating a more “equal” and “democratic” world.

In my paper, I summarized the conflict between the conservative (set bodies of knowledge) and progressive (constructing knowledge) views of education. I used the above quotations and many others to describe the authors’ position. I even presented their evidence, as they described it “socially scientific data,” as rather convincing. I devoted more than half of my paper to the summary, attempting to prove that I knew the material.

Then, of course, I argued. I presented an opinion. I “constructed knowledge.” I shamelessly borrowed arguments from C.S. Lewis’ Screwtape Letters, where Screwtape presented Hell with a method of infecting education with the “democratic” values of devaluing human potential to the least common denominator.

I stated that my purpose for becoming a teacher was not to change the world, but to change each student. I suggested that “while it is accurate that social inequalities and instability exists in American society, it is not a practical goal of a state-employed educator to correct these problems as they see fit.” We were teaching at schools, not preaching at political rallies. Parents trusted us to educate their children. “Schools are not meant to make socially insecure students (or parents or educators) feel better by helping them confront less challenging materials, classrooms, societies, or worlds.” Teachers needed to challenge students with critical thinking, knowledge, and curriculum even if (or especially if) it was constructed from “absolute certainties and universal truths as mined from the depths of white, Western culture.” Such certainties and truths cannot be so easily discarded.

I presented the view that “progressive educators would seek to change the teaching job to include those of a nurse, psychologist, and social worker in order to promote their views of equality and social stability.” Our service to American families should not change due to modern socio-political pressure. I suggested the consequences of this action were outrageous, as presented by C.S. Lewis: “Education should not be taught such that a student who is able to handle advanced mathematics or Aristotle will have to sit and listen to a student struggling to read Dr. Seuss’ ‘Green Eggs and Ham.’ Should both of these students receive the same level of education because of special social interests such as promoting views of ‘democracy’ and ‘equality’?”

I argued that the world’s most tyrannical leaders became that way by making people believe their full potential was found in the lowest common denominator. In communism, Marxism, and even socialism, everyone has their place in society that is never above average. To present “social equality” as “true democracy” was absurd. I present my personal reflection, opinion, and purpose for teaching in the last three pages of my eight page paper.

I received my paper back with no corrective markings on it, save one: the letter “F” on the back page. No one else in my class received a grade lower than a “C,” and even that paper had feedback. I approached the professor after the course to talk about my grade. We agreed to meet in her office later in the week.

I met with my professor in her office marked as “Dean of Education.” She initiated the conversation with shock and outrage at my paper, because I had always been a productive student in class discussions and attendance. I summarized my paper and conflicting views with the course text. Her response was priceless.

She said, “As the Director of the Education Department, I need to ask you some questions.” She continued, “How do you feel about me as a professor?” I didn’t quite understand what she meant by the question, so I simply told her I enjoyed her lectures and discussions because they always provoked critical thinking. She responded, “It seems to me that you have a problem with supporting equality in a diverse society. Do you have any problems being taught by me, a black female?” I responded with a simple, “No.” She continued, “How do you feel about minorities? Do you think you’ll be able to effectively teach people such as blacks and Hispanics?” I said, “Yes.” She responded, “Honestly, based on this paper, I do not believe you. You are going to have a very hard time being an effective teacher. I am concerned about you being in this program. I am concern about you earning a credential from this institution. Please understand, this is not personal, but it is my job to make sure people who graduate from here are not racially or ethnically prejudice.”

I was absolutely speechless. I didn’t know what to say. She brought out my application and personal statement, which included my personal background. She asked me more personal questions about my childhood, how I grew up, and if I had any bad experiences with non-whites and females. I answered hesitantly because I did not want her feedback. I told her I did not understand how these questions related to my paper. So, after a small discussion about my life history, the conversation changed again back to the subject of my paper.

At the beginning of the course, my professor announced that, if student disagreed with their grade, they could resubmit it for re-grading. She informed me that this would not be necessary because my grade on the paper would not change. She explained that my views of the text were purposefully inaccurate and misleading, which were the basis for my grade. I explained that there were no inaccuracies in my references or the context in which they were quoted. She replied by saying that my quotes were chosen to purposefully misrepresent the text based on my analysis that followed. She suggested that in order to pass the course and continue in the credentialing program, I would need to have perfect attendance, receive perfect marks on my homework, and receive an “A-“ or better on my final exam. The only other option was to appeal to the Dean of the university by way of a review board.

In closing, she told me that she was still very concerned about me being in the program. She doubted my success in teaching, and suggested that, if my views on diversity in education did not change, she hoped I would not continue the credentialing program. I told her I would continue to do my best, consider an appeal to the Dean, and left her office.

I finished the course with grade of “C.” I had perfect attendance, perfect homework, and received an “A” on the final exam that was an in-class essay written about our personal methods of teaching based on what we saw were the goals of education. Apparently, she saw no reason to criticize my methods of teaching, even if my motives to do so were “racially or ethnically prejudice.”

Throughout the remainder of my credentialing program, I never received a final grade in a course lower than an “A.” My transcript starts out with “A, A, C, A, A, A…” etc. I passed the state-certified subject exam in Social Science and became certified. Due to my coursework, I received a Professional Clear Credential rather than just a Preliminary Credential. I would’ve graduated with high honors if I hadn’t received a “C” my first quarter, but I didn’t even attend the graduation ceremony anyway. If I would’ve attended, I would’ve loved to have shaken the hand of the Dean of Education as I walked across the stage. I’m sure she would’ve enjoyed seeing me too.

Gun Control

Like most teenage boys of my generation, I have fond memories of playing Duck Hunt on my Nintendo and shooting BB guns at GI Joe men. But, unlike most of the guys I am around today, these activities were just a teaser for what I would do every hunting season when my Dad and I drove out to the mountains with loaded rifles.

My earliest outdoor training started like every one should: gun control. For me, “gun control” meant learning how to control my gun, rather the today's political message of learning how to not have a gun. My father taught me gun control by simply describing to me the mechanism and operation of my BB gun. As a hunter's safety instructor, he used the same analogy every time: “On a pencil, there is an end you can write with and an end you can erase with. But, do you see an eraser on this weapon? What you do with this machine cannot be undone. Once that bullet leaves the end of your barrel, whatever you're pointing it towards will be dead. Do not point the barrel at anything you are not willing to shoot.” As a result, I learned to be terrified of every weapon I touched, no matter how small.

These fears remain even today. My roommate recently bought an airsoft gun, which shoots a small plastic BB by way of a spring. However, when he jokingly fired a shot at me in my backyard, I made it very clear that if he so much as points that weapon in my direction again, one of us will end up very hurt. I even blink when a squirt gun is pointed at me. Even though the weapon is just a machine, I respect the machinery of that weapon to work when called upon, even if it is accidental. Unlike people, weapons rarely malfunction.

I remember walking down a beach with some Christian friends on a Catalina Island retreat when one female described how disgusted she was with some published pictures depicting young teenagers holding scoped rifles while dressed in camouflage. She fantasized about how much better the world would be without guns and the wars they cause. Like every good mother, she was worried about what might happen to those she loved. My mother did the same. Every time my dad and I left to go challenge the local coyote population to a duel, my mother would warn us, “If both of you don't come home together, then don't bother coming home.”

We chuckled at my mother's worries, but not because it was unfounded. We laughed because it was the equivalent of telling a skydiver to put on his parachute before he jumped out of the plane. When a weapon is the hand of either me or my father, a special part of our brain is reserved for the status and direction of that weapon. A constant internal dialog is always taking place: “Are there rounds in the magazine?” “Is there a round in the chamber?” “Is the safety engaged?” “Is there a secondary safety engaged?” “If I pulled the trigger right now, what would happen?” “Where is my hand in relation to the trigger?” “Is anything near the trigger?” “Where is the barrel pointed?” “If a bullet leaves the chamber, will it ricochet off what it hits?” “Where are the people I am with?”

I learned this internal dialog when my father asked me these questions at random while I was hunting. He would tell me to freeze at random times and ask me what would happen if my weapon went off at that point. I quickly developed the habit that unless I was sighted in and ready to fire, the safety on my weapon was engaged.

One of my most embarrassing moments during hunting was caused by this habit. My Dad and I had called in three coyotes from nearly a mile away. It took them a good hour to work up the courage to approach the sound of our fake dying rabbit. Once they decided to come in, they came in at a full sprint towards our camouflaged bodies looking for said rabbit. I lined up on the front runner, and watched him through my scope as he came. When he was at 100 yards I thought about shooting, but he was still running, so I waited. While I waited, he kept running towards us at full speed. Finally, he appeared barely 20 yards in front of me and stopped at a dead halt staring directly at me. He must've caught my scent and was trying to identify it, which gave me just enough time. My crosshairs divided the small white spot on his chest into four perfect sections. Aim small, miss small. So, I squeezed the trigger.

Nothing happened. Squeezed again. Nothing. Shit. I mentally reflected without moving or even adjusting my breathing. Did I pull the trigger far enough? Yes. Did I load a round into the chamber? Yes. Did I disengage the safety? Fuck. No. I slid my thumb quickly and quietly to the safety latch and slowly slid it forward. The coyote just stared at me. Finally, it clicked. My relief was undermined when the nearby coyote heard the same metallic click and bolted away at the unnatural sound. It sprinted away faster than it came and I heard my Dad let out a huff and a slight chuckle. “Forget something?” he said. “Yup,” I said. “Safety?” he laughed. “Yup.”

Fortunately for me, coyotes have this bad habit of being curious about what they are running away from. When they feel they are at a safe distance, they almost always stop to look at it a second time. Unfortunately for this coyote, 300 yards was not enough of a safe distance. I would've much rather taken a 20 yard shot than a 300 yard shot, but I'm not complaining now. My Dad and I still laugh about that time I forgot to disengage my safety and scared off a coyote, but I always remind him that I still got it in the end. I was 14 years old at the time.

Thanks to my teenage education in gun control, I learned concentration, responsibility, and self-control. These are necessary lessons for all youth, and firearms are the medium my parents used to teach me. All youth hunters must go through a hunter's safety course to be legally able to hunt. Hunting alone teaches more self-control and responsibility than driver's training, even though I could do more damage with a car than a gun. As we know, one does not learn responsibility by stripping themselves of it. One does not learn self-control by avoiding dangerous decisions. Weapons, even dangerous ones, will teach a person more about themselves than anything else in life.

So, my friend's comment to me on Catalina island about the irresponsibility of society to put weapons in the hands of adolescent hunters struck me as quite absurd. My response was less than tactful, as I described why every teenager should grow up learning to hunt and use firearms. There is no medium that teaches character better than firearms. Parents who cannot handle the high responsibility of a gun will not be able to pass that level of maturity off to their children. Thanks to my parents allowing me to handle a gun, I learned how to manage important, even dangerous, situations since I was 12 years old. I couldn't have asked for anything more and I'm relieved they didn't dare offer me anything less.

The Midwest

Today I visited Pocahontas, currently located in Arkansas. Didn't you know? Pocahontas is a town of 1,248 people. It says so on the small green sign standing proudly beside the only paved road in town. I drove into town in my rental car, rolling my eyes and sighing about what a ridiculous culture I would soon be dealing with. I often make fun of the Midwest because it is so easy to do so, but honestly, it is even easier to be jealous of it.

Being an avid “find the best deal online first” consumer, I was discouraged to drive past the only hotels in town, which were still advertising color T.V. and HBO. I considered that this probably wasn't a feature I was going to find under the “accommodations” section of Hotels.com. They probably don't pricematch, either. I imagine that the term “mom and pop” shop has never been used here because, well, what else is there? Oh yeah, Wal-mart, but only in the big city.

Shortly thereafter I started to drive through the neighborhoods. Naturally, I fake wondering about their property prices, while smiling coolly about the fact that I could probably afford any mortgage in town. Heck, I could probably afford two, especially if the houses are like those. It was just then that both sides of the road cleared out into soft cut grass and caught my attention. And then I saw it. A house. No, a mansion. Or, maybe even an estate! No, MY house, and an instant daydream. I can see it all now, Mr. Toad. I pull up to the four white pillars in whatever motorcar I drive. I invite my friends over to go fishing on my boat around my lake surrounded by my land behind my stainless steel brick barbecue. I write books to make extra cash, but I mostly live off of my earlier investments, whatever those may be, but I'm sure they're not important. You know, I really wouldn't mind living here. The red brick buildings surrounded by naturally healthy green trees reminded me of those more traditional and well-earned Christmases. I guess some quirks are really quite perks.

But there are some more serious quirks too. Every town I passed through on the way to Pocahontas (including Bald Knob, Newport, and Alicia with a population of 145 posted) had no shortage of churches. Small steeples, square buildings, and simple landscapes featuring Christian quotes on billboards seem to grow better in this climate than anywhere in the world. Unfortunately, so do cemeteries. In every town I went through, right next to the main (or only) road in town, one could see the town cemetery. But these cemeteries were noticeably different from ones I normally see because each headstone seemed to have a twin right next to it. In other words, rarely did I see a headstone by itself. Husbands and wives, mothers and fathers, kin and kin, cuddled and cozy. Pretty cute, pretty cute.

It is also clear to me that the Southern Baptists have clearly won the “We Have The Most Money” award. The cute Methodist one-story, the Pentecostal former dentists' office, and the non-denominational single-family home can all fit easily under the noon-time shadow of the local Southern Baptist church. Of course, the buildings also serve as the church campus, college, community center, and anything else beginning with the letter “C,” but we know what they really mean. Our congregation tithes, your doesn't, we've won. I kid, I kid.

So, while I don't understand how the roots of this culture could develop a Clinton, I wouldn't mind witnessing the goings-on here firsthand. I'd love to find a hot Midwestern wife, even if she had to be Southern Baptist. And despite my subtle appreciation of the styrofoam-packed poultry at Costco, I would absolutely love to know a local butcher.

My Room

Let me tell you a little bit about my room. My room is not a place anyone wants to show to guests who visit the house. My laundry basket was overrun a long time ago. There are at least six loads of laundry pouring out of my closet door by now. There is a trail of cleared carpeting leading from my door to my desk chair to my bed. Without this trail one would have good reason to doubt that the room has any carpeting at all. Behind the laundry sits two dusty guitars that still get played, just not polished. I do not wish to know what horticulture experiment is growing between the many sets of socks, jeans, t-shirts, and the carpet below. The closet door remains jammed open due to this mountain of decomposing cotton and polyester. That one corner of the room alone could probably make the most experienced maid blush and faint.

On my bed are two blankets which, as far as I can remember, have never covered all four corners of the bed at the same time. They lay loose next to two pillows with unmatched pillow cases. The sheets get washed about once every other month because, like some children, I enjoy that “broken in” smell over the fresh “ocean breeze” scent of laundry detergent. I prefer settling into my slightly unkempt sheets at the end of my day like I would a beer over wine.

Books are littered around my room like confetti after a wedding. Yesterday I found a book between my mattress and the box spring, though I never meant to hide it. Journals that I have kept since 1992 make up one-quarter of the remaining books on the shelf above my desk. I have a cook book sitting on top of my last oil change receipt next to the speaker for my computer that hasn’t been moved since I set it there last year. Coke cans, coffee cups, and plastic spoons lay two feet away from the inside of my trash can. And, as unlikely as it sounds, my trash can is filled with nothing but a trash bag.

Sometimes I feel like a rat living in a hole with bottle caps and old food lying around, but this is a rare feeling. I am rarely ashamed of my room because, believe it or not, this is my sanctuary. The light blue ceiling that I painted with my own two hands reminds me of a clear upper sky. The walls etched with white faux splatter on a blue-grey surface give me the impression that I am high and safe. On the walls hang gifts of artwork received from friends in remote countries, knives brought back from the highest mountain range in India, and a grey sweater signed by every student I taught in my first classroom.

Even though my mother would be terribly disgusted, as would any potential girlfriend, I get a strange sense of relief that my room is repulsive to others. Without me saying a word, it lets people know that they’re not welcome unless they receive a special invitation. I can retreat to my room on any day, at any time, under any circumstance and trust that I will be unbothered.

The exposed trail of carpet snaking along the floor is my trail. I have traveled it many times. It is the easiest path for me to walk and the most difficult for others. Surrounded by empty gum wrappers and a web of wires tickling my feet I have remembered by best moments in life. And, I am recalling one of them to you right now on this dusty, worn keyboard.

So, if I happen to meet a special girl one day who actually sees my room from the hallway and predicts a future with a messy houseguest, she may be right. But until she sees the room from the inside, walks my trail, pushes the shoes out of the way and closes the door, she won’t have a clue about me. It is not clean, but it is safe. Everything is provided, just not on shelves or in drawers. This mess is my nest. I have no problem cleaning my room, but I do not wish to substitute a clean room for a home. I do not refuse to please someone by cleaning it, just not everyone. My room is a testimony of my sincerity. And I hope the few who know me can gauge my character by my personal lifestyle, not by my personal hygiene.

The Importance of Listening

I read a book a few years ago that changed my perspective on every relationship and friendship I’ve ever had and will ever have. The book is called The Lost Art of Listening. It’s a deadly accurate and well-written instruction on how to listen. I never thought listening was important enough to write a book about. I was wrong, dead wrong. I’ll summarize what I can:

In common practice, listening is usually the time spent during a conversation when we either reflect on our own part of a story, start constructing a reply, or prepare some insight for advice. We listen so that we can respond, because we believe we are expected to. If someone calls us for help, we listen so that we might figure out how to can help. If someone speaks in anger or frustration, we listen defensively or we withdraw. In other words, we react when we listen. We do not know how to listen objectively. We listen with reactionary and lazy minds. We do not empathize. In short, we do not realize the importance of simply and actively listening to each other.

Ironically, I wasn’t inspired to read this book until I realized I get really annoyed when people are not listening to me. I thought, “Hey, maybe this will teach me how to get people to understand me.” People can always tell when you’re not listening: shifty eyes, easily distracted, interruptions, spacing out, call waiting, etc. I know you can relate to this. Ever talk to a loved one about some difficulty you were having? Have they ever responded with, “I don’t know what to tell you,” “Try harder,” or “I can’t really relate?” I don’t know of anyone who talks about their difficulties solely so they can get advice, be told to work harder, or wanted someone to tell their own story. In fact, this response only leads the speaker to feel isolated, neglected, or even abandoned at times. Is it any wonder why one of the leading complaints in relationships is that one partner feels the other is not listening to them or their needs?

What do you need to start listening effectively? There are really only two goals: the first is to attain knowledge from the speaker, and the second is to be completely available to the speaker. When attaining knowledge, it is important to understand the difference between what is being said and what is meant.

For example, if someone is speaking in frustration or anger, does that mean they are angry with you? A good question to ask yourself in this situation is this: do they want to vent or do they want advice? Listen to their intent so that you’ll know how to listen to what is being said. “Dang, I was driving to work, I was in a hurry, and THREE DIFFERENT CARS cut me off!” Put yourself in their shoes. Do they want advice? Probably not, the situation is over. Do they want to vent? Yeah, probably. So now, you can begin to empathize by exploring their perspective.

Observe their body language when speaking, tone, emphasis on emotions or events, repetition. Then, keep the conversation going by encouraging them to talk about those things. “You sound understandably upset, did you get to work late?” “How did you react to them?” “Was everything going okay before they cut you off?” “How did the rest of the day go for you?” Put yourself in their situation. Find out how deep their thoughts/feelings go. Don’t be surprised if they move to a different topic or event. Be available enough for them to fill your head with their perspective. Follow them in their feelings/thoughts/stories, let them guide you into each one. Emotional topics are hard to effectively listen to, because you need to transcend into their world and the suspension of your needs is complete. But, in order to listen effectively, you must be completely available to the speaker. You are theirs. Once they stop or pause in conversation, simply encourage them to give you more knowledge about their feelings/thoughts by asking insightful knowledge-seeking questions or simply saying, “Tell me more.” Do not turn the conversation to yourself. Good listening really does take more effort than it does to speak.

In contrast, how does it feel when you are truly listened to? Important. Cared about. Understood. How would you feel if someone effectively listened to you talk about whatever you wanted? What if, after you went off for a while, they said, “I enjoyed listening to you, but keep going! I want to hear more!” Loved. “What is your opinion about…?” “I’d like to hear your thoughts on….” Respected. When you truly listen to people, you treat them like a blessing, not a burden. It is clear when someone is and is not listening to you. It is unbelievably important.

Christianese

I’ve been having a problem talking with some of my Christian friends lately. For the first time in my life, I’ve been away from the Christian community for quite a few months and I’ve had a problem returning to it. Part of the problem is that I no longer completely understand Christianese. I don’t quite understand how Christianese ever started, but I regret that it did, and that’s not really the point anyway. I think very few Christians understand how difficult it is to bond with someone spiritually who uses this language. I want to explain what I mean by that.

Try to have a conversation with someone who speaks Christianese and you’ll usually hear the following phrases: “I have a passion for…” “I am blessed because…” “I have a heart for…” “I feel led to…” “I feel like God desires…” “My vision for…” “As Christians, I think we should…” “I have a lot of compassion for…” “What would Jesus do?” “I’ve prayed about it and…” “We should really seek God’s passion/vision for…”

In the examples above, the most common words used are passion, vision, desire, seek, feel, led, blessed, and heart. Rarely do those words occur in the English language in normal, every day life. In normal conversation, people who hear these words are not only forced to pause so that they can remember their meaning, but they also must understand the symbolism in context. For example, if I said “I have a heart for the poor,” native Christianese speakers would understand that I want to help the homeless. But our culture does not commonly use “have a heart” as a substitute for “want.” I understand that there is a deeper meaning in the term “have a heart,” but our common language is not without its deep meanings either. What if I said, “I have a heart for paying taxes,” “I have a heart to eat healthy,” or “I have a heart for not cussing?” Are these not still duties we can do as Christians? It would not only sound strange to say these things, but it would also put us at an unnecessary distance from our listeners.

This distance not only occurs between Christian and non, but also between Christians themselves. If you notice, the use of Christianese is considerably decreased between close friends and private conversations. It is possible that this is due to the dropping of social facades or fears, which might also be the reason Christianese is used in the first place. Honestly, I do not know. However, I can imagine myself speaking in vague, interpretive Christianese to get myself out of a conflict. “It’s not that I disagree with what you’re saying, it’s just that I feel like God desires me to have a passion for seeking his vision and purpose rather than doing what you say.” I know this works because I have used it many times before to avoid conflict.

An unintended, or sometimes intended, result of speaking Christianese is to avoid speaking frankly or honestly. It’s pretty lame, actually. If there were a Miss Christian America pageant, I could imagine the winner saying something like, “I have always desired to seek God’s face and pray for Him to change my heart so that I can be used to pursue His vision for the world.” In other words, “World peace.”

Anyway, I am trying to change my language such that every Christianese word that I use can be easily translated. I use the words “want,” “like,” “enjoy,” “love,” “hope,” and “happy” as much as possible now. To quote C.S. Lewis, “Nature never taught me that there exists a God of glory and of infinite majesty. I had to learn that in other ways. But nature gave the word glory a meaning for me. I still don't know where else I could have found one.” Perhaps we should not be inventing meanings for obscure words, but we should be using common, secular, and comprehensible language to describe our most intimate relationship. At the very least, I could start to understand my friends again, and they could begin to understand me. God knows I have a heart for it.