It was my dearly beloved who suggested I start writing.
It's not as though I didn't write before. I love to write. It's where I feel alive.
And lately I've been feeling dead.
I feel like I have so much to say and nothing to contribute all at the same time.
I think, for me, this will begin as a cathartic exercise as I non-verbally process how I've gotten here.
Because, I wasn't supposed to be here. Not according to the non-existent plan I had, maybe, kinda, sorta, not really, but only in my selectively revisionist past. You know, the one where I was on top of things. >__>
Here's what I'm avoiding saying: I was supposed to be a pastor. Or something. Something with Jesus. Something that made a positive difference. I sang, with conviction, that I was going to be a history maker.
I'm not a pastor. At least, I'm not paying my mortgage with a salary from a church that employs me to pastor them. And probably with good reason: my ethos, drive, and love for Jesus has consistently placed me at odds with the general maintenance of the kind of institutional structures that usually accompany such dream jobs.
I love people. I want the best for pretty much everyone I've ever met. It's my hope that they walk away from every conversation with me edified. I was greatly encouraged a few months ago when one of my co-workers said that every time he talked with me he had to change. I confirmed that it was for the better before apologising like the true Canadian I am.
If I could, I would love to have Jello Biafra's job and blow minds for a living.
As I've been writing these paltry paragraphs, I've been reading some of the stuff I've written over the years. Two things have come to mind as I read: 1) I'm long winded. and 2) so much of what I've written has been damage control. Granted, some of my best ideas have seen the light of day as a result of trying to explain to my pastors the why and how I am not "anti-church." Truth is though, rereading it, I know the tears that went into all that pseudo-intellectual diatribe. I know now that it was a wasted effort. about as fruitful as jerking it in the shower. If I were to trace to the day when I knew it was over, I couldn't hammer down an exact date, but it would be the night I started writing that email.
A couple of years after that I moved back to Owen Sound with an invitation to be a part of another church, one that seem excited by the questions, challenges, and visions of what could be which seem to define my existence. That experience turned sour. Maybe I'll process that here. I need some kind of an outlet.
I guess at the end of the day, I'm in the wilderness of post-civil-christian-Canada and the thought of entering into another church building gives me the cold-sweats. Am I "done" with church? no. Am I done with the institutions of the church? Oh yes. I've got PTCD. (Post Traumatic Chruch Disorder)
And, to make it a perfect storm, my theology has exploded.
I've heard it said that George MacDonald wrote his book "Unspoken Sermons" because no one would have him preach them at their churches. I suppose until I can find a place to pontificate at, this blog will be my place to write the ideas as I process what this life, the universe, everything means in light of the Father, Word, and Breath.
either way, you're awesome.
^__^
It's not as though I didn't write before. I love to write. It's where I feel alive.
And lately I've been feeling dead.
I feel like I have so much to say and nothing to contribute all at the same time.
I think, for me, this will begin as a cathartic exercise as I non-verbally process how I've gotten here.
Because, I wasn't supposed to be here. Not according to the non-existent plan I had, maybe, kinda, sorta, not really, but only in my selectively revisionist past. You know, the one where I was on top of things. >__>
Here's what I'm avoiding saying: I was supposed to be a pastor. Or something. Something with Jesus. Something that made a positive difference. I sang, with conviction, that I was going to be a history maker.
I'm not a pastor. At least, I'm not paying my mortgage with a salary from a church that employs me to pastor them. And probably with good reason: my ethos, drive, and love for Jesus has consistently placed me at odds with the general maintenance of the kind of institutional structures that usually accompany such dream jobs.
I love people. I want the best for pretty much everyone I've ever met. It's my hope that they walk away from every conversation with me edified. I was greatly encouraged a few months ago when one of my co-workers said that every time he talked with me he had to change. I confirmed that it was for the better before apologising like the true Canadian I am.
If I could, I would love to have Jello Biafra's job and blow minds for a living.
As I've been writing these paltry paragraphs, I've been reading some of the stuff I've written over the years. Two things have come to mind as I read: 1) I'm long winded. and 2) so much of what I've written has been damage control. Granted, some of my best ideas have seen the light of day as a result of trying to explain to my pastors the why and how I am not "anti-church." Truth is though, rereading it, I know the tears that went into all that pseudo-intellectual diatribe. I know now that it was a wasted effort. about as fruitful as jerking it in the shower. If I were to trace to the day when I knew it was over, I couldn't hammer down an exact date, but it would be the night I started writing that email.
A couple of years after that I moved back to Owen Sound with an invitation to be a part of another church, one that seem excited by the questions, challenges, and visions of what could be which seem to define my existence. That experience turned sour. Maybe I'll process that here. I need some kind of an outlet.
I guess at the end of the day, I'm in the wilderness of post-civil-christian-Canada and the thought of entering into another church building gives me the cold-sweats. Am I "done" with church? no. Am I done with the institutions of the church? Oh yes. I've got PTCD. (Post Traumatic Chruch Disorder)
And, to make it a perfect storm, my theology has exploded.
I've heard it said that George MacDonald wrote his book "Unspoken Sermons" because no one would have him preach them at their churches. I suppose until I can find a place to pontificate at, this blog will be my place to write the ideas as I process what this life, the universe, everything means in light of the Father, Word, and Breath.
either way, you're awesome.
^__^
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