If you know a purpose behind what you're facing, I think you're a lot more apt to face it in hope.

Always seems like summer holds these grandiose plans for relaxation, but somehow you get to August and feel sunburned and more tired.  So far for me, summer has been a messy transition where rest has looked pretty restless.  One day has seamlessly rolled into the next and I don’t have a gage on the last month.  And ironic, or causal, or coincidental, or affectal, it hit me en flight home from a wedding this weekend that I've also been out of sync with God.

Though I tend to buck most “traditional customs” of being in relationship with Him, it dawned on me that some of the more traditional disciplines of Christianity took hold for a reason.  Something of their end brought focus and enjoyment, for a time, to their means.  And if I’m honest, I can’t help but wonder if something of their lacking in my summer living is affecting my synclessness?  I’ve not been attending church regularly.  I’ve not been journaling much.  Serving has been sporadic.  And spending time with God’s Word has been sparse.
 
Am I saying I’ve done something wrong, or not enough right, so am therefore "out of sync?"  No!  I'm a big believer in God having me where I am on purpose, and also Him being at work where(ever) I am.  But, I am saying there’s something to be said for the gift of spiritual disciplines.  There’s something to be said for intentionality and structure and commitment in our relationship with God (or anyone).  You’d think I’d have this down after two years of graduate level study with it, but I don’t.  I’m still learning.

I’m aware that structuring discipline into my summer won’t promise an end, but I’m also aware that sometimes I don’t need an end; just a beginning.

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.