I guarantee either you, or one you lead, struggles with body, image, or body image problems. It’s unarguably one of the most pertinent topics for modern ministry.  So pertinent, and expansive, really, that I’ll not pretend one chunk of thoughts suffices for conclusions.  But as I’ve said before, blogging is fun cause random chunks and admitted inconclusions are okay.  So here goes...
 
I’ve been struggling with my own image issues lately, so decided to put a blanket over my full-length mirror.  It’s been great. Has forced me to ponder “seeing myself” and “what I look like,” from a different angle.  And oddly enough, drawn me back to an afternoon in northern Uganda last summer.  Walking with a local through random bush villages, at one point he warned, “Now most of these people have never seen a white person, so there’s no telling how they’ll react.” What he didn’t tell me, however, was that “most of these people” were children—most of this village was under age fifteen, so young in years, maybe, but severely aged in what they’d seen. For the brunt of the afternoon, I spent time playing with kids of a different generation, different language and different worldview.  Statistically speaking, I’ll live to 78.  They’ll be lucky to make next year.  I have a set of parents, plus godparents and a handful of random parents, who could further parent me should something happen to my own.  These kids are their own.
 
Most of my time was spent with a family of nine.  Both parents had died, leaving their oldest at 11’ish and youngest less than six months.  Not only had none of them seen a white person, but neither had any of them seen themselves. The closest they’d come was the reflection from a shallow puddle, or shiny knife.  So suffice it to say, introductions to a digital camera were pure magic.  At first they seemed to think it was a gun, scared to death and wanting nothing to do with this black weapon.  But eventually, they realized the little tool could produce some pretty unbelievable shrapnel. It delivered a picture that was bright, detailed and somehow familiar.  Upon seeing one of the images, the eleven-year-old “mom” of the family ran away crying.  I wonder what she saw? Before long, dots were connected and reflections on the screen quickly yielded into mimics of our scene. And soon after that, logic caught pace with imagination, or imagination with logic, and it was realized they, then, must be in those reflections too? For the first time, these people saw what they looked like.  And yet somehow, it was still evident to me that they knew better than me what their true imaged entailed.
 
To fathom a world without mirrors…a world without measuring panes of size, shape and beauty, or seasoned sightings of how one looks…is unfathomable.  So I’ve been wondering if maybe seeing and sight has a more expansive definition than I’ve been sold—or “reflection” a less holistic answer to my “image”?  Maybe “seeing ourselves,” as we know it, isn’t the end, or beginning, it’s cracked-up to?  Though black boxes and glass are unarguably cool, maybe they don’t see all reality, or show all of ones self?  Furthermore, maybe there are other ways to learn what I look like, than a mirror, screen, or Facebook photo.  It seems that since I am inside of me, I am incapable of fully seeing me.  So maybe like these children, God permits other ways of learning to see—like seeing inwardly, as a means to my outward?  
 
How is it that I surrender something unseen (myself), to Someone unseen (God), in belief that doing so will allow me to see (faith, as described in Hebrews 11:1)?  
 
Maybe our ability to see is somehow rooted in our ability to know?  So that in learning to know ones self, we actually learn what we look like?
 
Let me get back to you.

My friend Garret called last week.  He was in town from Atlanta and wanted to hang for the night.  I was amidst finals and just having a crappy day, so told him it might not be the best timing.  “We’ll, here’s the deal, Abbie.  I have an extra ticket to the finale of American Idol tonight, so if you wanna meet me at my (Four Seasons Beverly) hotel, be here in an hour.  We’ll head to the show and then grab some dinner.  I’d love to treat you, but understand if it’s too last minute.”  I got ready in about ten minutes and headed downtown.  Suffice it to say, it was an insane night.  From waiting outside with Ozmans for our limo, to turning down fifth row seats for stage-side, then meeting Simon and dining fine at Spago, it was the Hollywood dream, to say the least.  

Funny thing was (well, one of the many funny things about the night was), I’d never even seen American Idol, so had no idea who “the Davids” were, or Simon, for that matter.  So from a completely objective, outsiders perspective, I was amazed at the obsession (understatement) with “idols.”  The poster-screaming, hope-dreaming shouts of love, lust and fantasy in a blatant, idolatrous fashion.  People love to dream—and shoot, if you get the chance to actually live in it for fifty minutes, why not, these people seemed to preach!?  The waking-up will surely come, but maybe seconds of the dream suffice to trump the sad wake to reality.  For maybe when reality feels hopeless, or loveless, or bored enough, the fantasy can at least fill in a part of the gap.  Even if the majority of this Idol audience knew they were loving a lie, at least they could know love—or taste love, for a time.  Maybe jaded love is better than none at all—cheap love, fake love, or forced love beats the lacking loves sung by reality.

97 million people voted for this season’s American Idol…and that doesn’t even account for the number who simply who simply watched.  

There is no question that this generation is confused by love.  The question, I think, is what does it look like for us to sing the Truth?

Forgiveness has always been one of those tiny, yet knowingly robust words I didn’t understand.  Realizing that’s because in order to forgive another, or be forgiven by another, there seems a prerequisite, or at least companion requisite, of forgiving yourself.  And I’m just learning that.  

The end is the beginning.  And all earthly ends always move toward new beginnings.

Do you tell people sitting next to you that their cologne is waaaay too strong?

I thought my heart had loosed hope.  But it hadn’t.  I was still hoping that if, when, or then…  But God’s hope doesn’t seem to impose such attachments.  It just is.  He just IS.  Professing God as my “only hope” is not natural.  And requires supernatural cooperation.

Geez…and its only 9:24am.  A WELL of depth and question and unseen, scary Life is brewing inside me.  Holy Spirit, lead on.

http://www.stevencurtischapman.com/

I met a sweet girl this week.  Can’t remember the exact whereabouts, but it was as though her voice just kind of entered my space.  Like when you learn a new word, and all of the sudden hear it all the time?  That’s how she feels—familiar and yet almost surreally unfamiliar.  I don’t recall having heard her voice before—had certainly heard of it, but honestly didn’t really think she existed.

On some fronts, my newfound friend is childish, but on others, incredibly mature.  
She knows realities of her interiority, corporality and uniqueness.
She’s humble enough to be weak.
She’s gentle on herself and compassionate with others.
She’s gracious and graceful with the Makings of her body.
She chooses laughter and welcomes tears.
She loathes shame and embraces anger.
She’s not afraid of her hunger, nor daunted by her complexity.
She’s not afraid of darkness, though doesn’t pretend to not want light.
She's not afraid of failing.
She’s not afraid of falling.
She does unto others, but is willing to prioritize doing unto herself.
She knows destinations of peace, but embraces the journey of war.
She knows she is beautiful.
She knows who made her new.

Her name is Abbie.
My name is Abbie.

He visited today.  In a refreshingly different, and yet still awful way than before. Different in that I recognized him, and awful in that recognizable, or not, he still exudes awfulness—like a whispering ghost, criticizing my every move.  

I saw his face—I felt his disdain.  

He stared at my openness to anger and asked me to hate.

He gaped at my hopes of the hour and asked me to fear.

He mocked my sadness.  

Marked my weakness.

Masked my gladness.

And raped my good.

He marveled at my tears and said, “Don’t stop.  You should always be finding more reasons to flow.”

He flirted with my fatigue and said, “I’m glad to find you here.  I’m glad to remind you of your name.”

He grabbed me by the hand, wanting to lead me back into his dark—back into his dance.

But I pulled away and said, “No.  I see you today and your story is not worth my time.”

(or When Sin Got Sexy or The Church’s View on Smoking or It Would Suck to Have Asthma)

In an attempt to dissuade smoking, I remember adults and health books saying it looked “uncool.”  I hardly agreed.  Although never taking-up the habit, “uncoolness” was far from the compelling cause.  I have to say, the thought of one smoking in a Parisian café, suavely engrossed in a good book, or stimulating conversation, rates as one of the more “cool” looking scenes in my opinion.  In its proper context, I think smoking is sexy.  

Too bad it gives you cancer.

(Random aside: I wikepedia’ed smoking and came to find that these little white sticks have dented history since 3000BC!?  Among other interesting, disturbing facts, “Between 1970 an 1995, per-capita cigarette consumption in poorer developing countries increased by 67 percent, while it dropped by 10 percent in the richer developed world. Eighty percent of smokers now live in less developed countries. By 2030, the World Health Organization (WHO) forecasts that 10 million people a year will die of smoking-related illness, making it the single biggest cause of death worldwide, with the largest increase to be among women. WHO forecasts' the 21st century's death rate from smoking to be ten times the 20th century's rate ("Washingtonian" magazine, December 2007)).

I was taking a walk the other day and passed a relatively fit looking woman on the other side of the road.  She was probably fifty or so, and I think what led to my initial double take was the fact that she required the pursuit of an inhaler two times in our fifty-yard span of passing.  Man, it would suck to have asthma.  But what an inspiration to see people like this, captured by disease, or disability, but still committed to a life that fights the odds.

But then I realized it wasn’t an inhaler.  

The woman was smoking a cigarette.  

While walking.  

Inspirational moment had passed.

Maybe something about this was good though—at least she was still exercising, right?  And certainly being “transparent” in her addiction.  But…really…together…cigarettes and cardio?  Could they work?  Should they work?  Puffing the odd cigarette in a Parisian café is one thing.  Sucking down cigs while exercising is another.  And publicly!  But then I got back on my “things that suck” bandwagon and realized an addiction to smoking must be really awful.  I have enough addictions and rarely have the gall to admit to them, especially in public.  Her authenticity appealed to me and although it didn’t strike me as sexy, it did strike me as honest—and I liked that.  Which led to my consideration of today’s “emerged church.”  We love authenticity.  But unfortunately, I feel like it’s taken on a pretty sexy twist.

It’s one thing to attempt belief in a wooden cross and unconditional Christ who wants to save you.  But it’s an entirely other to walk that out.  As if it’s enough.  As if his exercise really cuts the bill.  Without cost.  Without adornment.  Without a sexy cigarette in hand.  I think a lot of our dogma has moved into walking while smoking—because at least you’re out for the walk...and, at least you’re smoking with authenticity.  

So am I saying we can’t have our walk and smoke our cigarette, too?  In some ways, I guess, yeah.  But I think the bigger thing I’m saying is that there’s a temptation to make, and keep, sin sexy.  To over-glorify exercise with a cigarette, versus just exercise—to keep afloat destructive habits, as long as they’re “in accountability.”  Again though, I’m not saying cigarettes are “bad,” or “following Christ and/or authenticity,” is a seamless “good.”  Furthermore, I’m not meaning to minimize, or maximize, given habits.  These are theologically fringe conversations you can take up with God.  What I am meaning to say though, is that I think we’ve gotta be willing to further grapple with an atoned for, yet transparently addicted culture of saints.  Furthermore, to tread lightly in treating the arguably sexy appeal of sin.  Can they walk together?  Should they walk together?  How do they walk together?  

Because no matter how sexy smoking can seem, it still leads to death.

Airplane

Airplanes are one of the more perplexing things in life to me.  They’re intimate and communal, yet detached and individual. Unfaithful in offering a detailed view, yet immeasurable in light of granting “the big picture.”

I’m flying right now.  En route home from the Orange Conference in Atlanta, which collected thousands of leaders aiming to rethink our thoughtful (and sometimes not so thoughtful) attempts at “Church.”  It was encouraging on many fronts, but overwhelming on many others—revealing a naked and yet overdressed, vow-less and yet overly complex, modern Bride.

The man behind me is speaking German and has ordered three “vodka and tonics.”  The woman in front of me is holding a baby.  She seems sad and tired.  The man beside me snores in intervals of three and hasn’t moved since take-off.  The guy across the way looks about forty, with a young daughter.  Going by their head-gear, they’re Jewish and look to have a tender relationship.  And these are but the inside faces.  My window keeps changing its visage, from cloud, to mountains and soon to be ocean.

Imagine all the stories on just this plane, let alone the faces of atmosphere airing its frame.  Where do they come from?  And where are they going?  Which can’t help but make me think about leaving this conference and wondering where we’re all going—and if the airtime we experienced was enough to change where we’ll choose to go?

I believe the distance between the Church Body is shrinking.  Mileage between denominations and destinations seems to be lessening.  Masses are colliding and ministries collaborating toward new (and newly old) attempts at the Commission.  But I’m still can’t help but realize we’re gonna land in 46 minutes…and all these people are gonna go their own way and reenter their own story.  And I have to wonder if all of us from the conference will do the same?  If all of us in the Church will continue doing the same?  Will we choose to keep colliding on certain fronts, sharing airtime and elevation, but then isolate again when the rubber hits the runway?

Not sure what I’m meaning to say here, exactly, or if there’s every anything conclusive to say after all—heck, I’m thousands of feet in the air, so far from conclusive statements of precision.  I guess I just want us, and me, to be aware of the Churches full process in attempting to fly—the take-off and landing points, as much as the airtime in-between.  That we’d be grounds in our points of departure and destination, but risky in our willingness to head upwards.  I guess I just want our generation of disciples to be with the Bride in all parts of Her aisle—porch and alter, as well as airtime in between.  Flying high with lofty ideas and innovation is good, but its most important and challenging task is “landing well.”  Integrating successfully.  

The bad news is, I have no idea what this looks like.  For me.  For you.  For us.

But the good news is, the pilot just announced a grace period.  Seventeen minutes till landing.

This is a more exposing spread of paragraphs than my norm, so bear with me if I’ve moved into a realm too vulnerable for your tastes.  

So it was my birthday a couple weeks ago.  I’ve never been a big birthday person, but this year really wasn’t.  Birthdays weren’t grand celebrations for me growing-up (conversation/issue for another day), which takes my view of these (birth) days to a benchmark of sorts, but not much more.  (Although my mom does sing a pretty awful, and thus decently hysterical, yearly rendition of “Happy Birthday” to my answering machine.)  All mediocrage aside though, twenty-seven marked the first “bad birthday” I’ve ever had.

Suffice it to say I’ve never been “the typical girl.”  And certainly never the typical “Christian girl.”  I knew I held dreams of marriage and mothering (mothering and marriage is probably the more suitable order).  And I knew I had expectations and assumptions of “right passages.”  But I didn’t know to what extent.

In summary, my 27th birthday woke to an I am single soliloquy spanning Vogue’s entire archive.  Again, rare to my typical form, or at least conscious and shared form (meaning I think this has all been subconsciously around for as long as my birthday has), I hit the girly’est, lonliest, love-craving place I can remember.  No matter how shallow and ungodly it seemed, all I wanted was a man to tell me I was beautiful, and if he had a ring in hand, or was named Ben and/or Jerry, we could’ve just gone straight to the vows.   

These feelings were shocking and depressing enough, but they weren’t even the most pervasive.  I told you this was vulnerable.  The feelings I felt most strongly that sunny 27th morning were sadness and guilt.  Sigmund Freud says depression is repressed anger.   I would agree.  My sadness felt very, very sad, but more honestly, it felt very, very angry. Angry at myself.  Angry at my circumstances—or lack there of.  And angry at my anger.  Furthermore, I felt guilty, apologizing to God for being where I was/am that day/today.  “I’m sorry I’m not married.  I’m sorry I don’t have children. I’m sorry I don’t know what I’m doing with my life.  I’m sorry God…so sorry…”  As phrases hit the page, and further inwardness came out, it felt like I was listening to someone else, and yet something of the lands felt recognizably real, too.

One of the things I appreciate about blogging is that you can click “post” without necessarily finishing a thought process.  And that’s what I’m about to do.  Life is hard.  Believing God has you where you are, on purpose, is hard.  And feels really bad at times.  If the Bible is true though, and the Cross really happened, Something is unfolding that wants you and me to be exactly where we are today.  Even if that means having a bad birthday.