Give It Away

I said, once, that love was God giving us something back.

As in, “everything else leaves in life and nothing really lasts, but when you love someone – that's God giving you something to hold onto, saying – benevolently – ‘I know everything leaves you, but this is the thing you want most of all, and it’s yours forever.’”

Now, I said it to a girl that I wanted to like me, so I was being a little melodramatic (I am usually being a little melodramatic. This post, believe it or not, is a little melodramatic. You’ve been warned.) But, I did believe it. Love is God giving us something back.

I know a very little better now. “Love is God giving us something back” is one of those things that sounds true. It’s a sweet thing for lovers to whisper to each other, and it works nicely on a note (dotted with hearts.) But God, He only gives us sacrifices. Only gives us what we can give back to Him.

He gives you a gift in one hand and a match in the other – “Will you burn this also, for my sake?” And, mark my words – as you love your life - burn it on the spot. Better to burn it yourself then to have God show up one day and take it by force.

You could have had a sacrifice to the Almighty. Now you have nothing at all.

See the story of Abraham and Isaac (I don’t understand a word of this story. Not a word.) God gave Abraham the only thing he’d ever wanted, a bouncing baby boy, and then commanded him to strap his son down on top of a mountain and split his neck with a knife. Abraham obeyed and, what do you know, God called it at the last second. “Whew!” we all say, wiping our collective brows. “Playing it pretty close the chest there, God!” And Abraham…what did he think, then? Untying his son, chuckling nervously, avoiding his son’s saucer-wide eyes.

We are not told what would have happened had Abraham refused God this request. We just don’t know.

Monstrous, maybe. But what else could God do? What is our love, or what are we, really, except beings who can’t love anything without destroying it too? Our love gets confused with possession, obsession, and need. Our love gets confused with a roll in the hay. Our love gets confused with fear. Our love gets confused with hate.

We love with our emotions. We love with our tongues. We love with slip-shod bodies, jittering feelings, and buzzing brains. We wield love like fire hoses, like axes. We love with bladed arms and time bomb hearts. We love without mercy. We love without knowing how. We love, and love, and love and the whole world has paid a terrible price for our loving so fiercely.

And God sees what we call love, and He knows what will happen if we don’t let go. He’s seen the horrors done for love of man, love of country, love of His own self. So, he gathers all your love together in one place, sets the kindling, strikes the match. And you wake up and see yourself burning alive, muscles melting and tendons snapping, while He stands over you. And you scream “No, no, no! All that I ever loved! Stop! Stop it!”

But it won’t stop. He won’t stop. “Narrow is the road,” Jesus says about Heaven, and that’s true. It’s a narrow road with a narrow door, and if you’re going to fit – then everything else is going to burn away. He’ll strip you down to yourself.

Love’s a destructive force – we all know that. We use it wrong, we end up destroying what we love most (there are no exceptions, really.) Only God can destroy the rest.

So, something different now: If you love something, give it away.

the earth is the Lord's

I have one thing left.


There used to be a lot more. God took it all, as is His prerogative. “The earth is the Lord’s,” the Psalmist says, “and all that is in it.” Terrifying thought, that. If the earth is the Lord’s, there’s not much left for us. I suppose, if it’s all His in the first place, then He can take any of it back without asking permission. I’ve seen Him do it, many times.

We’re fond of talking about letting Jesus into your heart. It’s a great line for kids – cute little picture. What we don’t tell them is Jesus’ size. How he is so big and so real and your heart is so small that there is simply no room for him unless he guts you first. And whenever you ask him to scoot over so that you can move something else in, He rips it out of your hands and chucks it into his Father’s furnace that burns and burns and burns.

A year ago, Jesus had me, I suppose, right where he wanted me. I didn’t have a dime. I didn’t have a home. I didn’t really have a job. I didn’t have any future ambitions, or goals, or plans. God had stripped me naked, and He may have been very well pleased with my state (maybe not though. I don’t really know beans about God.)

All those things we talk about giving to Jesus, I had given away. I was a man without a thing. I lived in a church in Chicago. I existed on the kindness of friends. I was angry. I didn’t have much to offer, and I had nothing to own. And then…I got one thing.

One Thing. And, as soon as it looked like it might be mine, I walled it up and kicked God out. Here was something that He would not be invading.

No, no, no, God – not this time. I’ve seen what you do with my stuff. Knowing you, you’ll want this too, and I’m telling you – this time, it’s mine. Mine, mine, mine! Do you know the meaning of that word?! Or do you, in your infinite and boundless greed, see nothing here but one more thing to add to your horde?!

I did everything I could to keep Him out. Anything I could think of. Even going so far as to paying lip service to Him really governing it (I knew better. I know better.) and I tried to earn it. Tried to make it mine, to prove that God is Heaven is not the only one who can make something beautiful. And I thought, perhaps, if God could learn to occupy His proper place in my life – as a sort of pet that I could indulge and look after and who would in turn keep me company and get me friends – then, perhaps, all would be well. I carved a line down the middle of my heart. You, God, are on that side. I am on this side. Please, don’t touch anything else.

Please, please, God – I’m begging you. Don’t touch anything. I know what you want, and I know that you say you make all things new but I don’t want you in this one. Just, please. Leave me alone this time. I’ve given you so much. I’ve sacrificed a lot. Give me one thing – it isn’t asking so much. Just one thing, and I swear, the rest is yours. Just give me space. Leave me be for a while. This…I love this more than I’ve ever loved anything and I’m worried that you’ll take it because that’s what you do you take the things I love most and I understand that it’s because you love me but you understand, don’t you, that I just want for once in my life to love something without having to drop it into your hands and I do love this so much so please. Please. Don’t. Touch. Anything.

But the earth is the Lord’s and all that is in it.

And God, being Who He Is, didn’t listen.

Because our hearts are small, and there is no room for “God and…” He’ll have His cake and eat it too, and then He’ll have seconds. He wants to love of all of you, and to do that He has to possess all of you. He wants to save all of you, and to do that He has to own all of you. And He’ll pin you down like Isaac on the alter and scoop out every ounce of your flesh, peeling layer after layer after layer after layer after layer after layer after layer after layer after layer after layer after layer until you’re looking up at Him, swollen and skinless – without a thing in the world to call your own. And you turn to Him, because what else can you possibly do?

And He’s crying too, because He loves you so very much, and He hates to hurt the things He loves but if He doesn’t how could He save them? And they don’t know how important it is, to give it all up so He has to take them away, pry their hands off and toss the things into His Father’s furnace (that burns and burns.) And then He holds them. Then He holds you. Then He holds me.

And, impossibly, I’m new.

-

I have one thing left. I can’t really explain what it is, or why it means anything to me – it’d be worthless to anyone else. If you saw it, you’d throw it away without a thought. Someday, maybe, I will too. But, right now, it’s all I have.

And God, I fear, is coming for it next.


“I am God’s servant. Let it be done to me as you have said.” – Mary, mother of God.

Enough

Meanwhile, Zacchaeus stood before the Lord and said, “I will give half my wealth to the poor, Lord, and if I have cheated people on their taxes, I will give them back four times as much!” Jesus responded, “Salvation has come to this home today, for this man has shown himself to be a true son of Abraham.” Luke 19:8-9

So you become a Christian. Simple process. Pray to Jesus, accept him into your heart, open the floodgates, your cup runneth over, etc, etc… There’s that initial little prayer that you hurl out to get the whole thing started. And, just like that, you’re a Christian. Found the Lord, or whatever.

Then what?

You start by ridding your life of the trash. Toss out your smokes, your porn, maybe your booze – cut ties with some friends who’d drag you down. Replace them with a Bible, a pastor, The Purpose Driven Life. Maybe you try to pray.

Not enough.

Then you start cutting out old habits. Friday night binge drinking turns into Wednesday night prayer group. No more sleeping in on Sunday – not when there’s church to be had. No more behind-the-back chitchat about the boss. No more peeking down the waitress’s shirt. Toss out some music.

Still not enough.

So you volunteer at church. You start financially supporting missions and African children. You paint a school. You witness to your neighbors. You plant trees, memorize verses, pray five times a day, and try to muster up some sort of emotion, some sort of feeling, any sense that this is perfect and that life right now is the best of any possible world and that things are better now than they’ve ever been.

But you’re running out decisions to make, and you know that it’s not enough.

You’re angry now. Because you had sort of hoped that you’d give your life to Jesus, let him clean it, and he’d just give it back. Shiny and new, trouble-free, and under your control.

Then you come across the story of Zacchaeus, the wee little man who – after one dinner with Jesus – couldn’t get rid of his money fast enough. Jesus tells him that “salvation has come.” And he wonders.

And then you wonder if that’s what it takes – if it just takes throwing off everything you have and are and want to be and burning every penny for the sake of Jesus Christ. And you remember hearing, in the beginning, that being a Christian meant giving your heart to Jesus – and you find out now, only now, that it’s True.

Juice for Jesus

it's a bright sunday morning when my good eye pops open and i begin my sunday chores, which generally involves whatever is left over of my saturday chores. of course, church service in imminent so there are things that need doing. coffee needs brewing, sound needs checking, candles need lighting. i was in japan once, and scaled 1,000 steps to get to a shinto house of worship on sunday - the monks explained that they wanted to make sure that only those who came really wanted to be there.

when the pastor shows, family and all, he surveys my work. "communion?" he asks, and i turn in dismay to the empty table in front of the church. i haven't set it out and, what's worse, we're out of crackers and grape juice. walgreen's is a ten minute walk, and off i go.

2 things:
"my one good eye." the night before, i allowed big g, my resident friend/sometime mortal foe/all-time dealer of drugs to other friends to take me on a short-cut from wrigley field back to my house. tyler, an impish runaway girl tagged along with us. she's the sort of girl boys hate to love, a girl who can throw faster, spit further, drink harder and cuss meaner than any of the guys. they made for a pretty tough couple, and i was the odd one out. they were doing their best to make it seem like they followed after God with the ardor of a middle-aged monk, and i was doing my best to keep it real. however, when our short cut led to a locked gate, both of our facades fell away. big g didn't seem very christian when he yanked at the gate until the lock split off and the iron bars flew open, and i didn't seem very gangsta when the bars hit me in the face, split my eyebrow in half, and sent me face down into the street, spewing blood and causing big g to go uncharacteristically bonkers over my well-being.

"crackers and grape juice." i don't like it anymore than you do, but the evangelical tradition has adopted an annotated version of the eucharist of late, substituting saltines and welch's for the body and the blood. there are benefits to this, but the overall effect seems to be a distinctly mcdonald's take on sacraments. the lord's supper has been streamlined down to the lord's snack.

at any rate, this is how i found myself running to wallgreen's, one eye swollen shut, hoping for a good deal on crackers and grape juice. it's a pleasant enough walk when its warm, and sunday morning walks are always welcome, the rest of the world busying themselves about enjoying the freest morning of the week. skipping church is its own reward. i run into walgreens and grab the first box of crackers i see (walgreen's brand, if memory serves me) and run up and down aisles, looking for grape juice. Its not by the orange. Its not with the soda. Church is starting soon. I'll still have to fill thirty little cups when I get back - a proccess that usually involves spilling half the container and leaving the kitchen looking like the aftermath of some ecclesiastic violence. where is the grape juice?

finally i turn a corner and see them, big jugs with white labels and cute kids smacking their lips across the packaging. i start checking prices and then, turn the containers to check ingredients. what would jesus drink? the question takes on gravity in this scenario, as we're doing this per his request, taking a stab at paying the back the Divine Favor. here, all he asked on the night of his death was that we eat a little and drink a little now and again, and remember him as we do. he didn't give specifications, but concentrate just seems wrong, as does something slyly dubbed: "actual grape flavor!" but, on a budget like this, can i afford the 100% natural juice? if it's for jesus? the cranberry grape is all natural and on sale, but does one mix cranberries into the communion wine? are we past that point, since we've foregone wine and all anyway? am i thinking too much? is my quest to fuse the sacred and the mundane bordering on psychosis, seeing as i've been staring at grape/cranberry juices for the past five minutes? as long as the stuff looks like blood, are we close enough?

i come to my senses as i realize that i've dropped the crackers on the wallgreens floor and am crying out of my good eye.

i grab the natural stuff and shuffle to the front of the line, one eye bruised and one eye red and angry-looking. there's a line of people in front of me, an old man with a pack of razors, a cute girl my age with a bag of cookies and a gallon of milk. and me, my crackers and grape juice: the body and blood of Christ (actual? symbolic? does it matter?) the line trickles through and i get to the front, where a dark-skinned takes the items from me and runs them under a scanner.

"find everything alright?"

Large and In Charge

It's not exactly a bustling night, but it's cold out so we've got a pretty good crowd running around the the building. Two volunteers are bringing out ground beef and taco shells, and another is trying to keep the swearing to a minimum (a study in futility, that. we're as guilty as they are.) There are a few expectant glances my direction as the kids shuffle into a line, ready to pray and eat. Glenn - ostensibly, my head of security, motions that it's showtime. I've never really done this before.

"Alright," I shout through my strep throat, jumping onto a chair so that the whole room can see me. "Can I have everyone's attention please?!" The kids all shush each other in unison, except for Andre who screams "bitch!" right as the rest of the talking dies.

"LANGUAGE!" bellows Glenn. There are no words for how big Glenn is. Inevitably, the first time you meet him, you'll be struck dumb by either his massive girth; the second time, you'll realize that he's neck-craning tall too. He's the sort of guy you want for security, so long as you can keep him to task.

"Where's Dave?!" one of the kids calls.

"This will just take a minute!" I crack. "As most of you know, Dave and Amy won't be here anymore, so now I'll be the only one in charge from now on."

"Why did Dave have to leave?!" someone shouts. There are a few murmurs of assent and I know that the answer to that question is complicated.

"It had nothing to do with any of you," I answer, truthfully enough. "Anyway, nothing around here is really going to change. Just remember, I want this place to be safe for everyone who comes in. That means, whatever's happening on the streets - leave it on the streets."

"I miss Dave!"

"If something has to be settled, take it outside the building. There won't be any fighting here."

Glenn mutters to me, trying to remind me to say something - but I'm on a roll and the kids are getting restless. The ground beef is cooling and Laura, the cook - bless her heart - is covering the food anxiously.

"So, tonight we have tacos and rice for you, also soda and coffee. I think we have enough for secoooonds..." I draw that out as I look questioningly at Laura who shrugs her shoulders. "We might have enough for seconds. I'll pray and then we can eat."

There is another chorus of "shhh!"'s as kids slip off caps and clasp hands. It's strange, to see a group of kids so steeped in keeping it real still feeling obligated to give prayer its due. It now, as it has before, leaves me a little unsure of what exactly to pray. How does one pray for this group?

"Father, thank you for bringing us all here and thanks for this food." I sound like a five-year-old at a church potluck, I know, and here's hoping that God can sift through what I say. "Look after our brains, Father - help us to join all our thoughts to you." - a line from a Sufjan song I've always liked - "and keep our bodies and souls safe." There are some mutters and a few giggles, and it's time to wrap this up. "Thanks, God - we love you so much. Amen."

"AMEN!" everyone chimes as the spell breaks and a sort of comfortable chaos settles in. Laura and Alora uncover pots and start dishing out food. Glenn glances over at me, and I almost have to stay on the chair to have a normal conversation with him.

"Pretty good for your first time," he says. I sense this is more a critique than a compliment, but this hide's thickened a bit over the past few months and it doesn't bother me much. "You shouldn't tell them to take it outside the building, though. They'll just fight in the parking lot - you should tell them to take it off church property."

"Thanks," I say. He's right, and sure enough, I'm chasing a scuffling couple off the parking lot and into the street later that night. I watch them fade down the street, winking in and out as their fight carries them from street light to street light. I stand in the cold, watching my breath puff out as Taylor, a spritely volunteer with luminous eyes and bouncing curls runs up behind me. Maja is acting up again, casting spells in the foyer. I walk back into the church and a familiar feeling takes over again, equal parts surrender and relief: A miniature prayer to God that is more felt than spoken, but runs something like, "all of me to help all of them."

The Continuation.

CONTINUED...

Blank stares hum in a room that, abruptly, feels all business. My grant proposal is staring each of these pastors in the face, like an expectant child. I'm playing it cool, leaned back, arms crossed, face set with an expression that I hope reads: "whatever, you know? It's not like I NEED your money."

The Hawaiian pastor shuffles a bit, shifting to skeptical mode. "So, who exactly are you feeding with this?"

I'm pretty well-rehearsed for this part. "The homeless in our neighborhood."

"How many?"

"Varies. Fifty to sixty a night."

"What are they like?" asks the children's pastor, a heavy-set soccor mom with a brunette bob and flowers on her blouse.

"Most of them are kids, many of them are sexually confused. Gender confused. They come out to their parents or friends and don't find the acceptance they thought they would. So they come to Chicago, band together in these little gangs, and get mixed up in drugs, prostitution and never really get a handle on their sexuality."

"They're all gay?"

"No. Some are. Some are bi. Some are straight. Some pretend to be whatever will get them friends. A lot of them are transvestites."

"You work with these people?"

"I live with them."

It sounds dramatic, I know - like I'm one of those people who are living their Christian walk in the extreme (like Jesus!) Maybe. It's not nearly as romantic once you're in the thing. It's mopping floors and brewing coffee. It's keeping toilet paper stocked and crunching budget numbers. A church is a church, I suppose.

"Transvestites!" The pastor exclaims, "well, you should invite Pastor Brad over there!" He motions to a young, quiet-looking pastor with long fingers and shy eyes. "He'd fit right in with the transvestites!"

Everyone laughs at this, save Pastor Brad, who smiles sheepishly into his cup of coffee. I watch Pastor Brad and realize that I'm not the only one floundering in this church. This religion.

"But seriously," Pastor Hawaii says, folding his hands in a mentorly fashion. "You and I both know that I could drop pennies into your work there from now till the Lord comes, and it wouldn't do any good. Right now, I have a 1.1 million dollar a year budget...that I'm not meeting."

He says I'm not meeting as if to correct any mistaken assumptions I might have about the livelihood of this church. As if he was saying, "don't kid yourself, hotshot. It ain't easy having all this."

"And," Pastor Hawaii says, peering over his glasses at me. "You're asking for...what does this break down to... less than a hundred dollars a week to feed all these people."

"Fifty dollars a week."

"That's not very much money, Tyler."

"It's what I've been doing."

"Well." The pastor whistles. "Who'd you find to cater these for less than a dollar a head?"

"I cook it myself - me and the volunteers."

"Fifty dollars a week?"

"We've gotten pretty good at shopping on a budget."

"It just doesn't sound feasible to me."

"It's what we do."

"But you see how that doesn't sound possible."

"It's possible."

"How?"

"Coupons."

"It's not much food then."

"It's not a feast, no."

"Fifty dollars isn't much."

"So give me more then!"

There are some awkward stares around the table, a hot silence that reddens the cheeks and statics the ears. Eyes fluttering about, wondering if I had said that last bit in anger.

I'm miles beyond angry.

The Pastor chuckles a bit, sensing the need to boost the spirits. "Look. Tyler. What you're doing is amazing out there. Amazing. We want to help. I mean, Pastor Brad will probably can't wait to start volunteering!"

Laughter - but for Brad - and the meeting is back where it started. Everyone's laughing and I'm feeling sick in my guts. There's a white board in the corner with the words, "God is good! All the time!"" scrawled on it in red marker.

I could have scripted the rest of it out before it happened. They need to talk it over. Look at the budget. Make calls. Pray. They'll be in touch. So good to chat. Let's pray. "Father, we thank you for the work that Tyler is doing..."

I leave, never wanting to hear from them again.

And I don't.

"So, Tyler, what's your gift mix?" calls this pastor from the front seat where he's driving me to see his new church building. Next to me sits his friend, a bald-headed baseball fan named Apple. Exactly why he's joining us for this little show and tell was never explained. Next to the pastor sits Pastor Jon, my friend and boss.

"Are you, like, musical?"

A fair guess, I think. After all, what would a ragged, struggling church be hiring if not a ragged, struggling musician?

"No," I say. "I'm...I don't know. I like people."

The pastor, bedecked in a blue hawaii-print shirt, laughs like a bomb going off.

"Well!" He booms. "The church will cure you of that!"

Apple chuckles brightly on one side. I realize my mistake quickly. I was supposed to be impressing these people with my quick business sense and confident Gospel-savvy, but my make-up is running and they're seeing me for my young, idealistic, head-in-the-sky self.

"I don't mean anything," Pastor Honolulu says. "That's great. It's just that, in this business, you'll stop liking people real fast. Understand?"

The irony of all this strikes me as too perfect. I want to say something theatrical like, "I think we understand each other perfectly." Or, even better, "Guy like you must see that happen a lot." Or, in my wildest dreams, "Pull the hell over. Call me if you ever meet Jesus."

So, I don't say anything.

The tour through his church takes most of the day. There is "The Gathering Place" - a fully functioning coffeehouse and pastry store in the front of the church. "The Warehouse" - their middle and highschool room themed after a guess-what. "Upstreet" - their grade school haunt, strangely named, for the theme here is a barnyard (how the ice cream "shoppe", fire engine, X-Box center fit into the barnyard remains a mystery) And, best of all, "The Stage," a fully functioning theatre for rascals little and big to perform some original plays written by some of their very own church members. The tour takes a few hours, and I'm thinking about how my church tour would go.

"Okay, so, here we have our sanctuary - keyboard and everything, we're pretty excited. Here's the office, you'll notice the color printer - 750 pages to an ink cartridge on this baby. And, yes, that's our bulletin board, featuring some hand written notes from some of our very own church volunteers. My room's back there, with the washer and dryer - any questions?"

Back in their office, I thumb the pages of my grant proposal nervously. Pastor Waikiki Beach pours me some coffee ("It's like our Holy Spirit around here - source of inspiration!") as the rest of his staff strolls in. Worship Pastor, Small Groups Pastor, Associate Pastor, Treasurer, Children's Pastor...

Jokes fly fast and furious, and the laughter that at the end of these jokes is at a level that borders apocalyptic. I play along with a nodding smile and join in. My feeblest efforts are greeted with uproarious chaos. Pastor Jon stays suspiciously aloof.

"Ha, ha, ha!" The pastor wheezes, wiping his eyes, "Whew, boy...that's how it is around here, Tyler."

I guess.

"Now, then," says Pastor Surf n' Turf. "What can we do for you?"

To Be Continued...