School is More than School

With broad brushstrokes, here is what I have learned this year in New York City:

There are in fact other people in this world that are just as cool as those in Fishers, IN.

Having brothers is like nothing else.

Words can give life or death.

People come here to escape in depths of busyness and business.

I came here to risk all I’ve worked up to until here, without a plan for what’s next.

People change.

I don’t have as many answers as I thought, and have asked even fewer questions.

I’m not as organized as I thought I was.

My family is really, really awesome.

God repays his people for injustices.

Sometimes cityscapes are just as beautiful as stars.

Living can be done while surviving, or while thriving.

I am not my sins.

I deserver what God gives me, because He gave it to me. Like a father giving a son lunch money — the kid didn’t earn the buck fifty, but deserves it more than the bully at school.

I can improv four minute presentations no sweat.

God still does miracles.

Hometown friends won’t forget me, and I can’t forget them.

The poor and the widows that Christ spoke of have faces.

School is more than schoolwork.

I am made to love justice and risk the discovery of beauty. 


“[blank] It! Boston!”

I’m not sure where to start this one, so I’m just jumping on in.

Yesterday a friend and I hatched a plan to go to Boston. Twenty minutes after throwing the idea out there we filled our once empty weekend with two backpacks, a guitar, a megabus ticket and the hope of buying the second ticket on the bus. We would sleep in the busstation for two night. I would hold the guitar while walking, he would play the guitar while sitting. We would split the money. The rest of the plan was us literally responding to any apprehension with: “[blank] it! BOSTONNNNN!”

We stood in line for the bus  for quite awhile. The excited exchange about how free we were and what all we were super pumped about had died down. We had texted a few friends about what to (not) do in Boston. As the bus pulled up, I confessed, “My excitement level has dropped three points…” He said, “Out of ten?” “No, a hundred….well, actually more like twenty…”

Funny thing about traveling in pairs: you need two tickets. In line to buy my ticket, he took his guitar. “We really haven’t thought this through. Let’s just do this some other weekend.” Since he had already dropped thirty bucks, and I hadn’t, I followed him back up 10th ave.

“My level really was out of ten. This was a bad plan.” I confessed.

“Dude, this wasn’t even a plan. It was just an idea. All we did was pack and say, ‘[blank] it! BOSTON!’ over and over again.”

I live my life, like I travel to Boston. I’m completely committal, but only semi-serious. 

Now that sounds more harsh than it is.

What I’m trying to say is that I pretend my plans are more than ideas. 

Because I have a lot of great ideas that I would love to live out: Live simply like Shane Claiborne, but with a strategy that accomplishes things; Bust through brothel doors and save women from sexual poverty; Bust through Microsoft Windows and save men from sexual poverty; Live in Brooklyn, Indiana or the Alps; Write and publish; Become a teacher; Master the piano; Get married and have children and have a basement; Have a weekly blog.

Obviously, the last one hasn’t come true. And the reason why, despite my pretty-good intentions, is because I’ve been looking at it the wrong way. I forget that there are different Wash Cycles for different parts of my life instead of just one.

I wasn’t blogging because I was tired of getting to the bus station and turning around. Coming to a new place with a new revelation, only to revise it the very next week. One can say “Hey! Look what I learned!” only so many times. The whole anecdote, metaphor, and life application writing cycle has gotten boring. I get tired of spiritualizing little for the sake of stories. Not that anyone is making me but myself. I’m tired of Thursdays and meeting word counts and pretending I can make up plans on my own that I can do alone.

I’m not going to be accurate, clean or obscene, reasonable, spiritual or poetic. Not as my main goal. 

I’m going to write to track my plans.
I’m going to live to play with ideas, because joy and wisdom are part of love and part of Christ.
And someday, I’m going to Boston, but with an actual plan.

Wash Cycles

There is one thing that I just cannot stand.

There is one thing that I just cannot live without. 

The cycle of not knowing something: Asking a why, what, where, who or how; Lacking an answer; Questioning; Finally having an epiphany; New satisfaction; New situation; New question.

The cycle of showering: Waking up each morning; Pulling off my skivvies; Stepping into the steaming stream of water; Standing there half asleep; Wishing for complete sleep; Cleaning my body; Hearing the water swirl in the drain, high-pitched in the pipes, dull on my head and pattering on my ear.

There is an absence in Life that is nothing but allusive.  The unknown.  It breaks into our heads, roughs us up and suffocates us with a pillow.  Why?  Just because it can.
Really?  No.  Because it has to.

There is a substance in life that is all but allusive.  Water.  It hammers our heads, slides over us and cleans everything.  In rain, in food, in air.  Why?  Because it does. 

What if there were no questions?  Then we wouldn’t need anything, not even that last sentence.  There’s a certain injustice to the need of knowledge.  An unfairness in the fact that answers have expiration dates.  This can make me mad.  Make me wonder why I learn anything, because in matter of time, a new situation will arise and my definition of X will be invalid.

What if there was no water? Then we wouldn’t have anything.  We’d be dirty; if we existed.  I am fond of existence, and of water.  All physical aspects aside, just think about the sound.  Faucets, hoses, brooks, storms, oceans, toilets, steam, showers.  Waves in the ocean, waves in the air. 

For the same reason I like showers, I don’t mind the quiet absence of knowledge.
The two both sound different depending on where my head is; literally and figuratively respectively.  The two keep my senses going and humble me…There are not many other places I’d be okay with standing around naked.

This is something I keep coming back to.  The absence of knowledge.  Somehow, each time it surprises me like steaming water on my backside, even though I know it exists and I subject myself to it.

It use to bother me.  Death of others and the future of myself made me uneasy.
Right now though, I’m perfectly fine with the fact I cannot ever know enough.

The sick part of the cycle is this though: I won’t be clean of this for long.

A Shiny Gray Day

Today is a nice gray day. The wet sky adds a nice template that meshes together with the streets and skyscrapers of New York.  Sure, it is raining, but that just makes everything look shiny.

A lot is floating around in my mind. I need a break from the lofty abstracts that are pounded into my head four days a week.  Christ asked flat out said, “Truly I tell you, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.”

Yesterday I finished all my homework for today and the rest of the week. So what will I do? Pray, read, photograph, listen to new music, play old games, and just bro out. I’m taking off the tie for a bit and going to live a little looser for a bit.

I so often forget that there are people on the subway with me.
Today I actually looked around at all the faces; faces are beautiful.
Even though almost everyone is plugged into their iPhones or are drunkenly asking for money, there is so much life on those trains.  So many dreams and desires that are overshadowed with worry.

While there are big problems in the world, and always will be, the fact that all the travelers had $2.25 to drop for a faster way to work/school shows just shows how limited the scope of worry really is.

Through conversations through coffee in Midtown, or dinner in the Bronx, or walking in Harlem, or hanging out in the Lower East Side, I’ve realized how important dreams and desires are. And how much hopelessness crushes those.

The most impactful conversation I have had recently was  with a man who until a few weeks ago was homeless.  He was from Hungary and spoke with a grand accent. How did I meet him?  On a homeless outreach trip, he was already serving others with his newfound love of the Lord. We talked about “the system” and cultural differences and vices and the love of God. He knew some of the men we talked to on the street. What I remember the most though, was how he quoted James 4.

Today I walked into an apartment of one of the faculty of the school here. They had a two tiered bookshelf filled with many books; some that I have loved, other’s that I don’t have an interest for.  What struck me though, was how I recognized all these books, and had a better opinion on more of them than I did of the 66 books of the Bible.

So for today or this week, think about those few things.  The amount of worry, and the amount of time in the Bible we spend.  I’m willing to wager that those are directly correlated in my life.  But despite all the gray throughout the world, so much of it shines.

The Coin We Flip

Here is yet another reboot of previous writings of mine. Most of this is pieced together and expanded upon from something I discovered a little less than a year ago.

I’d always been struck by the pure un-fairness that guys had the risk of being addicted and struggling with porn and sexual lust.  Now yes, I know men have a choice.  But I was always curious as to what women had to choose against.  Just what their secret sin that was as universal and horrible and enticing as sex (or even the thought of sex) was to men.

Through conversations and experience the vail lifted. Lust for beauty is to men as lust for emotions is to women.  From the very first woman, Eve, manipulation had been used to affection and attention.  By asking Adam to take the fruit with her, she was asking him to sacrifice what he knew to be right for the sake of her worth.
Now yes, Eve was lied to when she took the fruit, but every woman has followed suit at one point in their life or another; every woman has manipulated a man for their self-worth.

Girls want to be noticed, to feel affection. After God finished cursing the serpent in Genesis He turned “To the woman he said, ‘Your desire will be for your husband, and he will rule over you.’”
If Eve had never sinned until that moment, her desire would be for her Lord, not a fellow man. But she glanced away from God and He gave her exactly what she had believed she wanted, to desire a man, to be consumed with him. But God added a clause, Adam will rule over her. This isn’t in a sexist, demeaning sorta way, it natural. Eve wanted to be desired, which gave Adam a commodity: his desires. He now held the power to fulfill her need with affection, or to turn away and let her fall to pity. He ruled her being.

A loop forms, intentionally or not; acting in her lust to feel special, a woman will go to men to feel special. Each man she goes to thinks that she truly desires him because of the inordinate amounts of attention she is giving him. He will, in turn, pay her compliments and affection because he has been singled out. Typically, being more physically driven than the woman, he will shift the relationship towards a physical in return for the emotional payment. The woman, knowing this will keep him interested makes a trade. Both are giving pieces of their emotions or physicality that they don’t value in order to receive the one they do. Words for actions; actions for words. We all have been trained to fall for spectacularism over substance through Western thought and practice, and this area is no different.

Women throw “I love you” and “You’re beautiful” to each other like free candy from a rusty van, but that is no where near as good as hearing it from any man. (Unless he is in said rusty van.)  The attention alone satisfies the same desire that men satisfy with sex.

Compliments are women’s pornography. Five minutes of jacking up the flirting to get a short, sweet boost. If women desire to feel beautiful as much as men desire to see beauty; it makes perfect sense.

Its as if emotions and physicalness were two sides of a coin.  In each interaction there is a potential for man or woman to vy for their side of the coin to land on top of the relationship A continuous battle rages, both sides pulling for their face of the coin to win.  Coins, like magnets can’t become separate positive and negative poles any more than one can cut a coin in half and still have it be worth anything. Only with both parties settle down and forget themselves will they be satisfied.

What this means is that, despite the gender, people need to only give what Christ has already given.

In 1 Corinthians 6:18-20 Paul is instructs believers:

“Flee from sexual immorality. All other sins a person commits are outside the body, but whoever sins sexually, sins against their own body. Do you not know that your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your bodies.”

At first glance it may only look like he is talking to the sexual desires, but really this applies just as easily to emotions. Women, you were bought at a price — Christ’s life. If that isn’t where our value comes from we are going to be a mess. Not unsuccessful or horrible, but broken. If we all redirected our efforts for our lusts (whether it be from our hidden internet history, our weekly profile picture change or our constant worry and day-dreams about marriage) and put that time spent in our relationship with Christ our lives will be better immensely better than they are now.

I’m still figuring this all out.  By no means am I lust-less, or have solved the female mind.
But if I have fully laid by desires at the foot of the cross and also picked up my own cross to follow Christ  then my ignorance and faults aren’t my defining features.

Comment or contact me via twitter or facebook if you have any thought, encouragement, or debatable topic.