For Atlas, When She's Tired

It's all in the knuckles, 

You see,

And that knot 

In the middle 

Of your back.

As long as you 

Focus

And keep it still 

And taut

And controlled

When the water 

Starts to creep 

From your eyes

And your lip 

Twitches 

Like a mutinous

Little spy - 

That's when you have to

Squeeze tighter 

And harder

Just a little bit 

Longer.

Because it's all resting

On you, 

You see,

And you won't break 

If you don't want to,

And if you falter

Then everything, 

Everything,

Falls to the floor 

With a splash 

And a thud

And the crowd 

Just stares at their shoes

While you stand there, 

Shivering -

Just another naked girl

With nothing to hold on to.

Outwit, Outplay, Outlast

"Define yourself radically as one beloved by God.  This is the true self.  Every other identity is illusion." -Brennan Manning

I hate feeling useless.  My best days are days when I climb into bed at night and know, unquestionably, that I offered something unique and valuable to the world.  In turn, my worst days are when I can't seem to justify why I matter... why I'm still worthy of love when I didn't fill a niche or "pull my weight."  My life is like a series of Survivor episodes, and I end each day before a panel of skeptical judges who must decide whether or not I'm worth keeping around.

In our "tit-for-tat-I'll-scratch-your-back-if-you-scratch-mine" culture, I've grown used to grounding my security in my competency.  I'm usually not the smartest person in the room - but I'm rarely the dumbest.  I'm not an expert at anything - but I'm at least average at almost everything.  And, on most days, in most situations, that's enough to convince the imaginary tribal council in my head that I deserve to stay a little longer before I'm kicked to the outskirts of society where the worthless and the marginalized go.  

And that's where my problems with God begin.  When dealing with an all-powerful, all-knowing, all-complete entity, there's not much you can bring to the table.  My ability to "talk a good game" is useless in the presence of the One who created speech.  So how can I be secure in a relationship where I hold no power?  How can I be loved by someone who doesn't need me?  What do I have to have to offer when I have nothing to offer?

I've yet to figure out how this plays out in community.  On one hand, community has to be transactional on some level.  After all, somebody has to pay the bills, cook the meals, mop the floor.  If you are doing these things, you can still curl up in bed at night and say, "I matter because of XYZ."  The tribal council in your brain will be appeased for the time being.  However, I truly believe that God knows how much we struggle to grasp His non-transactional style of love and gives us community to serve as a model.  If, over time, I can see what it is to be loved collectively and indiscriminately by a group of people who still know my individual shortcomings, maybe I can begin to grasp the "furious longing of God" for His children whom he loves both personally and en masse.  Maybe I'll begin to rest in the security that, no matter what I do or how little I offer, He's not going to vote me off or cast me away.

"We unwittingly project onto God our own attitudes and feelings toward ourselves... But we cannot assume that He feels about us the way we feel about ourselves -- unless we love ourselves compassionately, intensely, and freely." -Brennan Manning

Why Do We Fear Community?

If you ask the average postmodern twentysomething if man is inherently good or evil, they're going to say "good" 9 times out of 10.  If you ask that same twentysomething if they'd be willing to open a bank account with a stranger who shares their worldview, they're going to look at you like you're crazy.  Americans perpetually preach the doctrine of autonomy and independence while statistics show that we're lonelier than ever.  We want to be loved and known, but we maintain our relationships via 140-character tweets rather than engaging in meaningful, face-to-face interactions with the people around us.

Why?

I've been pondering that question quite a bit lately.  Why is the idea of community... of interdependence... of a collectivist mentality so terrifying?  Some may point to recent examples of "communities gone bad" (Jonestown, Branch Davidians, etc.) to explain their misgivings, but I think our fears run much deeper than that.  

Lately, I've been exploring the works of Marina Abramović, a performance artist from the 1970s who examined the complex relationship between performer and audience.  The video below describes a controversial piece that was performed in Germany but ultimately proved too provocative for US galleries.  (Disclaimer: This clip contains a bit of nudity...)

The comparison I'm about to make is far from perfect.  Actively engaging in community is a far cry from passively surrendering to a crowd of strangers, but both do require you to put your life and your well-being, at least partially, in the hands of others.  This is, in my opinion, why we fear community.  Despite our hopeful platitudes on the benevolence of humanity, on some very real, instinctive level, we know better: People are evil and, if given the chance, they will destroy me.  We would prefer a kinder summary, but our behavior (and our history books) betray us.  The audience members of Rhythm 0 were not animals - they were likely upper- to middle-class, educated patrons of the arts.  The undergraduates chosen for the Stanford prison experiment were probably good kids from good families.  And, yet, when allowed to exert power over others, even "civilized" individuals are quick to abuse and terrorize.  As much as it's nice to talk about peace and love in theory, the thought of really living as one is simply not an option for most of us.  Charles Bukowski said it well: 

beware the average man the average woman

beware their love, their love is average

seeks average

but there is genius in their hatred

I think this is why, of all the things that Jesus could have prayed for His church, he prayed for unity.  It is in our close, interdependent relationships that we reveal who and what we really are.  Nice people are not uncommon - I meet at least one or two every week.  But truly loving communities are rare indeed... and our deepest wounds are usually inflicted upon us by the ones who are supposed to love us the most.  I think Jesus knew that the most powerful statement about who He was couldn't come from an army of "nice people."  There's nothing especially unique or inspiring about that.  Jesus knew that what the world needs most (and sees least) are people who love each other like family when they're not... who carry each other's burdens when they don't have to... who sacrifice for each other when there's nothing to be gained.  This is the type of behavior that points to something transcendent and other-worldly in the lives of everyday, broken human beings.

And the early church understood this.  In his book Life on the Vine: Cultivating the Fruit of the Spirit in Christian Community, Phillip Kenneson describes the reputation of Christians in their early days:

Because the Greek word for Christ (christos) was so similar to the word for kind (chrestos), apparently many people mistakenly (though perhaps fittingly) called Jesus' early followers not "Christians" but "the kind ones."

I don't think that most Americans would feel comfortable calling today's Christians "kind ones."  A recent study conducted by the Barna Group, an Evangelical research and polling group, found that the majority of Americans view Christians as "judgmental," "hypocritical," and "homophobic."  Perhaps it is because, unlike the early church, we do not practice what we preach by sharing our possessions with each other and the poor among us... or opening our doors to strangers who need shelter... or loving one another deeply like brothers and sisters in the family of God.

If we did, maybe community wouldn't be so scary after all.