Resistance is Futile. Assistance is Required.

I am growing weary of formal education. It seems the more time I spend in school, the more I simply realize how incredibly ignorant I am. I am Alice, perpetually falling into a never-ending pit of scholarship. And like Alice, I have given up on screaming and become entranced by the ceaselessness of the fall. I find myself hearing James admonish his hearers to "be not many teachers," and adding, "Or students!" with an exhausted agreement.

But let me clarify. It is not knowledge that exhausts me. Nor is it learning, in the strictest sense. It is the rigorous cycle of a revelation; it is the incessant revelation of my ignorance. And my ignorance haunts me like the ghost of a heinous crime. It creeps through the dark places in my mind, begging to be solved and unable to be understood. So, who do I call? Those Ghost Busters with suficient credentials to answer the questions that torment me: the learned men. It is precisely when they fire their proverbial photon rifle thingys that I realize my struggle is not intellectual.

It is a crisis of faith.

I have forgotten Jesus in my so-called "scholarly" and "religious" pursuits. In my heart, I have built a temple. It is my metaphysical place of religion. And in it, there are ways to make my faith "easy." There are tables where the answers are sold, even and especially the tricky ones. This is the table where cold analysis and strict syntax are on display. The man behind the table screaming, "OBJECTIVE or SUBJECTIVE GENITIVE? THE FAITHFULNESS OF CHRIST! FIVE DOLLARS!" And I run to him, throwing my money at him for the new answers, the exegetical shockers to pull from my hermeneutical bag of tricks. Another table is covered in devotional materials and prayer journals. The man here claims to be able to market and manage personal piety. Another booth is devoted to reconciling Christian faith and financial prosperity. My favorite table is the table where otherwise trivial good works are exchanged for potential suffering and self-sacrifice.

I need a wisdom from above, pure and liberating. Because I am afraid I have put too much faith in the tree of my Christian heritage and the mountain on which the temple of my heart rests.

Jesus, come and cleanse it.

The Necessary Relativism of Being Well

This semester, I'm taking a class on Soren Kierkegaard. One of the most notable aspects of his later writings is his emphasis on the necessity of suffering (a less than popular claim in American Christianity). His ideas have been bouncing around in my head, working their way into my life. I guess they have found their root in what I might call my "sufferings" as of late. Not to say that what I experience actually deserves such a title. It is trivial. It is pathetic.

And yet, as I walk away from my meaningless tribulations, I somehow find myself smiling. A man walks by, asking how I am, and I respond with a resounding "GREAT!" The odd thing is, I somehow believe it. Maybe its because my suffering is meaningless to what it could be. I am well-fed, well-off and unscathed.

I have recently realized that I may be as much of a cynic as one who believes in Christ can be. How can I be so negative when I am well?

At least I don't have any Peter Pan peanut butter.