Category Archives: Bible

publishing peace (and conflict)

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I just read Nahum after realizing that I’d forgotten Nahum was even in the Bible.  Whoops.

“Behold, upon the mountains, the feet of him who brings good news, who publishes peace!” (Nahum 1:15a)

Such an interesting choice of words– “who publishes peace.”  Definitely makes this writer stop and think.  In my writing, do I bring good news, do I publish peace?  Juxtapose this question with all I have been learning lately about conflict in stories: how we need conflict in stories even when we avoid it in real life.

Think of the gospel– the word gospel itself means “good news”– and yet it is full of conflict.  The climax of the story involves a death.

And a resurrection.

While I’m still sorting out my thoughts on this, what this means to me is that while a Christian author needn’t shy away from the conflict (and, in fact, should embrace conflict in the story!), there should also be a nod toward hope, toward peace.  The story might not end with sunshine or weddings or all the questions answered (I think I’d be annoyed if it did), but I think there should be a peek, a pinch, an inkling of hope.

I want to be a writer who brings good news, who publishes peace.  And conflict.  All of it.

sunrisecrop

welcome to 2013

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I wanted to find and post a poem about the start of a new year, but what actually jumped out in my mind was this, much more beautiful than any other poem I could have found for this occasion.

lamentations

 

enabling OCD and telling the truth

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I have not written about this in the past because this is not an area that I have a good grasp on.  To me, there is a fine line between enabling an obsessive-compulsive and just being a helpful supporter of that person.  When I was going through cognitive-behavioral therapy, my therapist had me tell my roommate and friends that they were no longer able to reassure me about anything silly.  I was instructed to tell them that if they did this, it would interfere with my therapy and decrease its opportunity for success.

So, all those times when I would ask, “Do you think that is okay?  Is this sinful?  Do you think I’m going to hell?” … they were supposed to answer it with something like, “I’m not allowed to answer that question.”  Or “I don’t answer silly questions.”  Or “I’m not going to answer and enable your OCD.”

It’s a hard position for them to be in.  For the OC too!

As a Christian who believes the Bible when it says, “The truth will set you free,” I had (and still have) a hard time thinking that it is not helpful for a friend to tell someone the truth– shouldn’t that help set them free?

But then I think how I asked those questions for years and years, and all that stated truth piled up like a mountain but never moved me.  Why was it that listening to a LIE– an audio recording telling me repeatedly that I was going to hell– is what ultimately unlocked the doors of my prison?

A student at the university where I worked asked me that earlier this fall– how listening to a lie could rescue me.  I didn’t have an answer for her then.  The more I thought about it afterward though, I realized that what had happened was that listening repeatedly to a lie started to make the lie SOUND like a lie– and that was the truth!  CBT helped me recognize truth, and so in that way, it was still truth that set me free.

Does that make sense?

I’m still processing all of this and would love insight on this!

~4

How/why does a good and all-powerful God allow bad things to happen?

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In light of the recent shooting at the Connecticut elementary school, many people are asking this question.  Years ago at a youth workers’ conference in Atlanta, I heard one of the most stirring messages of my life, delivered by Louie Giglio, and I have never forgotten what he had to say there.  In fact, his message has taken up residence inside my heart so permanently that it made its way into the novel I’m writing.  Here’s an excerpt:

He moved so that he was sitting beside me, both our backs against the tower wall.  “You know, West, I believe that God is in control of everything.”

“Even over the bad things?”

“Yes.”

“Death?  Disease?”

“Yes.”

“Catastrophe?”

“Yes.”

“Solipsism syndrome?”

The pause was brief.  “Yes.”

“Why?” I asked.

“The cross,” he said simply, and when I didn’t answer, he took my hand in both of his and explained, “When Christ died, his followers looked at his bloody body on the cross and said, ‘That is the worst thing in the universe.’  The ugliest.  The most horrific.”

I nodded, prompting him to go on.

“After the resurrection, Christians say that same image was the most incredible, amazing thing in the universe,” he said.  “How is that possible?  How is it that one weekend separated the worst thing from being the best thing?”  He leaned his head back against the wall, looking up toward the tower roof.  “That is how I believe that God is in control of everything.”

One thought wrestled its way to the front of my mind, and I blurted out, “But why was it necessary?”

Silas frowned.  “Eden.  The fall of man,” he said.

I shook my head.  “Even that,” I said.  “If God is in control of everything—like you say—then why did humanity fall at all?  Why wouldn’t God just have life go on perfectly, like in the garden at the beginning?  He could have stopped Adam and Eve from ever screwing things up.”

“I think,” said Silas with a sincerity that almost frightened me, “that God favors redemption over perfection.”

“You mean … you mean, he prefers a rescue operation over having no need for one?” I asked.

“That,” said Silas, “is exactly what I mean.”

You can watch the sermon that so impacted my life below, and I hope that you will.  Forty-five minutes of your time is a small price to pay for such a life-changing message.  If you choose to watch, will you post your thoughts in the comments section below?  I’d love to start a healthy and friendly discussion.

OCD and the Unpardonable Sin

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Scrupulosity: OCD centered around religious themes.

The story of my life.

The obsession: for many years, my head would repeat blasphemous things over and over, sometimes triggered by certain sounds and sometimes by non-specific phrases about hell, demons, souls, the devil.

The compulsion: I began to repeat one particular phrase– “Father God, I love You”– over and over in my head as a way to stem the other thoughts.

It became very difficult to handle everything that was going on: these blasphemous thoughts would crowd me– I mean, really crowd me (the image I have is of these thoughts bumping and grinding on me like dirty brutes at a dance club), and I’d be warding them off by repeating this repetitive prayer over and over (and over and over and over).  And on the outside, it didn’t look like anything.

Those who were closest to me (dear friends and roommates and family members) knew that I was going through hell, but they couldn’t see the battle that was taking place.  They only knew of it when I told them or on nights when I broke down sobbing in fear of eternal damnation.

It is hard to describe exactly what it feels like to feel as though you’re wearing a sentence of hell on your shoulders.  Here’s a shot:

Condemnation (or supposed condemnation) is like being in a tank of water with only inches of air at the top.  You have to lean your head back to put your lips to the air, and the whole while you must keep treading water.  There is no opportunity for distraction.  It consumes every moment of your life.

Anyone reading this understand me?

If so, please read this sermon.  I think it might help.  My heart aches for you, but there is hope.  Lovers of Jesus Christ don’t belong in hell.  Let’s talk.

my sister’s powerful dream

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On the night of March 1st, 2004, my sister Kristin had this incredible dream that I’d like to share with you.  Here she describes it in her own words:

Jesus is thrown into a whipping cage and I am thrown in with him by accident. He lays on me and says “I do not want anything to touch you. I love you SO much and because of that love I am going through this. I do not want that whip to touch you at all”. As he is saying this he is being whipped over and over again. I am crying and trying to hug him, but he won’t let me because he does not want any chance of the whip touching me. Blood is dripping on me, and there is so much because of how long they keep whipping him. I am seeing this up close and he is telling me over and over even with the whip hitting him, that he loves me so much and is going through this horrible death because he loves me. I am sobbing by this time. 

Can you imagine?  To experience this protection of Christ in a firsthand way like that?  Living in this century, when we view Christ’s great rescue, it always seems to be from the spectator seat, not looking up from the base of the cross while His blood drips onto us.  Even though it was sad and intense, I wish the dream had been mine.  That is an experience to hold onto for life.

Holy Communion

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I am not even joking, every Sunday morning after the pastor has preached and prayed and the band begins to play, it is all I can do to keep from running down that aisle toward the communion table.  I am always eager for that bread and cup, that holy reminder of my Savior’s body and blood, and as I swallow in the pew, I think, This is the best meal of my week.


I am so grateful for Jesus Christ’s sacrifice, and I think this eucharistic sacrament is a beautiful and sacred way to celebrate it.

mmm, the gospel

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My co-worker Brittane and I try to have lunch together whenever we can– last spring, amidst some crazy parts in our lives, we were getting together every Friday, walking over to the college cafeteria, and sharing as much of our lives as possible over our short lunch break.  Brittane would roar at me, “THE GOSPELLLLLL,” with one hand raised in the air in praise, her reminder to both of us to KEEP THINGS IN PERSPECTIVE, and over the course of several months, it became our war-cry.  Our prayers shortened to, “Thank you for this food, this friend, and the gospel.”  Then we would each raise a hand and repeat, “THE GOSPELLLLL!”

Gospel.  Good news.

And it belongs to us.  I am so happy to have this good news in my chest like a story, covering me like a shield, on my brow like a crown.  I claim it.  I spread it over my life like a blanket, like a slogan.

Jesus Christ lived and died and lives again; it makes all the difference in my life.

 

the Sons of Korah get it

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To me, there are two places in scripture that embody the depression and hopelessness inspired by OCD.

The first is in Luke 23:48-29, which takes place immediately after Jesus has died: “And all the crowds that had assembled for this spectacle, when they saw what had taken place, returned home beating their breasts. And all his acquaintances and the women who had followed him from Galilee stood at a distance watching these things.”  This one is more implied than overt, of course, but I can clearly imagine the deadness in the hearts of his friends as they watched their great hope dangle dead on a cursed tree.

The second is Psalm 88.  I’m drawn toward the Message version, and I used to sob as I read these words, feeling their truth weigh on my heart like the worst kind of pain and loneliness that existed.

God, you’re my last chance of the day.
I spend the night on my knees before you.
Put me on your salvation agenda;
take notes on the trouble I’m in.
I’ve had my fill of trouble;
    I’m camped on the edge of hell.
I’m written off as a lost cause,
one more statistic, a hopeless case.
Abandoned as already dead,
one more body in a stack of corpses,
And not so much as a gravestone—
I’m a black hole in oblivion.
You’ve dropped me into a bottomless pit,
    sunk me in a pitch-black abyss.
I’m battered senseless by your rage,
relentlessly pounded by your waves of anger.
You turned my friends against me,
made me horrible to them.
I’m caught in a maze and can’t find my way out,
    blinded by tears of pain and frustration.

I call to you, God; all day I call.
    I wring my hands, I plead for help.
Are the dead a live audience for your miracles?
Do ghosts ever join the choirs that praise you?
Does your love make any difference in a graveyard?
Is your faithful presence noticed in the corridors of hell?
Are your marvelous wonders ever seen in the dark,
your righteous ways noticed in the Land of No Memory?

I’m standing my ground, God, shouting for help,
at my prayers every morning, on my knees each daybreak.
Why, God, do you turn a deaf ear?
Why do you make yourself scarce?
For as long as I remember I’ve been hurting;
    I’ve taken the worst you can hand out, and I’ve had it.
Your wildfire anger has blazed through my life;
    I’m bleeding, black-and-blue.
You’ve attacked me fiercely from every side,
    raining down blows till I’m nearly dead.
You made lover and neighbor alike dump me;
    the only friend I have left is Darkness.

I praise God that he faithfully saw me through the very worst throes of OCD, and I believe that he will see me through whatever else lies ahead.  But I have known deep depression, darkness so intense that I could see no escape, terror that ignited my heart with a wild fury.  And he has seen me through it all.

There is hope.  Even though those friends couldn’t imagine it in their wildest dreams as they stared at that lifeless body stapled to the cross, the resurrection was just around the corner.

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