Notes from Northstar (church)

The point was raised today that in today's church, there is often a focus on the giving of "testimonies," and that the testimonies are expected to go like this:

"I once was lost, but now I'm found...and now I'm fine."

But life doesn't work that way. And so those of us who hear such testimonies and believe them and put stock in them find ourselves trying to match them--and failing. And when we fail we hide, and when we feel the need to hide, we feel ashamed. So there has been created, rather than a culture of love and hope, a culture of falsehood and dishonesty. It isn't good.


So here was the point:

It was never about perfection. It was always about relationship. When will we stop making it about perfection?


She said that when she was young, she heard a preacher say that "God helps those who help themselves." And at the time, being young, and "not knowing Genesis from Revelation," she thought, "well, it must be true, because he's old." But then when she grew older and studied for herself, she realized that there's no Biblical basis for that kind of thinking at all. Instead, there is a common theme of God helping those who are unable to help themselves--and that's all of us.


This reminded me of a whitewater rafting trip I took a long time ago, when I was seventeen. There was a flash flood on the river, and I and several others were thrown from the raft and nearly drowned. So here I'll start copying from what I wrote down in my notebook toward the end of church. (Excuse the melodrama. It happens more when I'm writing by hand and am feeling emotional at the time. Reliving this rafting thing brings back the residual PTSD stuff that I've still got going on sometimes.)

This reminds me of the rafting trip: this "God doesn't help those who help themselves! He doesn't make us pick ourselves up and climb, swim, crawl back! He helps those who cannot help themselves: all of us. So, the rafting: I fell out of the boat, off the wagon, into the dirty raging water, and I sank and I let it pull me down into its tumultuous, dark depths. I did not call out for help. I did not cry out to God. I did not even think to. I tried to swim against it on my own, and I could not. I could make no progress. I could not avoid the hidden snags and currents that repeatedly pulled me under. I did not know where I was or where I was headed or whether I would ever be able to snatch another breath of clean air again.

Still, in my stubborn and fearful silence, I was protected. In the midst of the flash-flooded, filthy, debris-filled torrent into which I had fallen, I was protected. I was not driven into an inescapable crevice [as commonly happens in such scenarios]. I did not dash my foot against a stone. [The whole time, the only things I touched were the things I was holding and the raft.] I did not run out of air, or time.

And when I finally realized my utter powerlessness and lack of direction, and when I finally saw that my death was literally inches and moments away, and I accepted it and asked for help, for breath, for direction, they were given to me. Instantly. I knew where to go and kicked up into the air with all my strength. And at the surface, still in the river, I was on the edge of the exact thing I needed: an eddy in the current, and a rock to which I could--just barely--cling.

And here it comes in again: help when we cannot help ourselves. No more than we can handle.

Treading water there, barely clinging to a sheer cliff face, I saw no help coming. I saw only rafts rescuing others--all too far out of range to help me. I was quite literally steadying my breath and mentally preparing myself to swim out to the only help I could see--which would certainly have meant my death--when a raft--the last raft--sailed around the bend in the river and pulled me in, and carried me to safety.


Of the four of us that fell in on a river that was so flooded that it was no longer legal to raft, in a rapid that, though it should have been a class 3, was now above a class 5, in water that looked like chocolate milk and ran full of propane tanks and tree limbs and coolers and, further down the river, power lines, none of us was injured. Though we all suffered from PTSD, not one of us was trapped beneath an undercut rock. Not one of us suffered a scratch. Though we were warned that we probably would, not one of us contracted a single disease from that filthy, sixty-degree water.

People die on the Gauley river fairly regularly, even under normal conditions.

Northstar (and life) notes.

First, before I forget, let me mention (not for the first or the last time, I'm sure) how much I love, love, love winter light. Also, to be technically correct, late fall light. Maybe it's the warmth of it and the way it falls in such contrast to the coolness of the air--beautiful for the same reason that the flame-colored leaves are beautiful in the chill winds of the season. I feel such joy when I see it slanting through the light curtain on the front door, falling into the mirror or onto a pair of cold-weather boots shed in the hallway.


Now, notes:

She mentioned the passage which says, among other things, to "love your neighbor as yourself," and pointed out that this is written as a simile--comparing a thing it is assumed that we know to another thing which it is assumed that we do not know: here, how to love our neighbor (assumed that we don't know) equated with how we supposedly love ourselves. The thing is that we don't really understand what loving ourselves means, or how we should go about doing that. If I really understood this, I probably wouldn't eat a half of a pint of Ben & Jerry's in one sitting, for example, or lie in bed until 11 am for no reason whatsoever. And it occurred to me (through some prompting) that really loving yourself well does not equate to giving yourself whatever you want whenever you want it (exhibit A: Ben & Jerry's), or smoothing over every discomfort that arises without addressing the real issue at hand at any given time. Therefore it follows, at least according to the verse above and also to the Golden Rule, that loving others well does not mean giving them whatever they want, making nice, and smoothing over all things unpleasant. Loving well isn't necessarily comfortable--it is just good and healthy. And it is rewarding.


At one point someone asked, in response to something Theresa had said about controlling our thoughts, whether controlling one's thoughts is actually possible. I had a difficult time following her response, possibly because the immediate answer in my mind was a resounding "yes." I had been practicing this for years when a metaphor was dropped into my lap as I read (forgive me) Eat, Pray, Love a couple of years ago. Gilbert had the same disbelieving question: how can a person control their own thoughts? Surely, she thought, such a thing is impossible. A friend helped her realize that your mind is like a port; your mind is your own safe harbor. Can you control what ships approach and ask to enter? Maybe not at first. But what you can control is what ships you welcome, embrace, unload and savor and revisit, and what ships you turn away immediately. If you habitually rebel every time your boss corrects you, then yes, the next time your boss corrects you you are probably going to rebel. But your choice when this happens is whether to embrace that feeling, to get into an imaginary (or audible) argument and storm out and meet up with your best friend for a beer-soaked bitch session, or whether to remind yourself that you aren't perfect, that everyone needs correction sometimes. Or even if your boss is legitimately out of line, to remind yourself that you can handle it, that it isn't worth ruining your day, that you shouldn't give him/her such control over your emotions. Because, after all, the only person responsible for your emotions is you. And you are the master of your own mind.


The next miniature revelation I had related to limits and boundaries. There was a psalm up on the overhead projector which I didn't write down but which made reference to boundaries falling in pleasing places. (I'm sorry, that's as specific as my memory gets.) I then had a realization that has been quite long in coming: often my feelings of being trapped come from the fact that I have been throwing myself like a moth battering a window up against the completely reasonable and incontrovertible walls of existence: time or money or body or law, which set impassable boundaries around us all. It is simple fact that limits do and will exist for each of us, and hurling ourselves against these kinds of limits is never going to be healthy or comfortable or pleasant. If I eat nothing but cheeseburgers or chips, my health will suffer. There isn't really anything uncertain about that. Or if I spend all of my money recklessly, I will suffer. There aren't enough hours in the day for me to play twelve hours of video games or watch as much tv or waste as much time online and still take care of my bodily or emotional needs like sleep and exercise and community. There isn't anything bad about any of the above limits (particularly considering that when you stop and pay attention, you just may find that there is very little that is actually enjoyable or rewarding in any meaningful way about consuming junk food or spending money or watching tv), but they're really going to seem terrible--and I am really going to feel put-upon and sorry for myself--if I spend all of my energy throwing myself against them. That is, of course, something that I have thus far spent a lot of my life doing.
Now I'm hoping to teach myself to stop leaping with disdain over the clear, even, peaceful path that winds along within spitting distance of those walls, because I am tired of picking my bruised and bitter and angry self up off the ground in preparation for my next utterly imbecilic rally and attack. Maybe I could learn to stroll and maybe I could remember that it is human nature (or, at least, it is my nature) to hate and to rebel against any imposed boundaries. Boundaries that I choose, on the other hand, make me feel (and make me be) strong and secure.

I get to use the tag "work" on this post!

I prepped walls and painted primer for seven and a half hours today, and I listened through the entire Wrinkle in Time audiobook, as well as the entirety of the "Playing for Change" cd and most of the only "De Temps Antan" album that I own. Bossman left around... 4 maybe, I guess? So I was there for a good 4.5 hours by myself, and it was a little bit glorious. Possibly I could get used to this.

For dinner once I finally came home at 9:30, there was (is) delicious roasted chicken thighs with vegetables, and rice artfully overcooked so that it stays together in lumps. I rather like it that way, actually, so I suppose it isn't technically overcooked, after all.



At church this morning was a sweet-seeming man who played the electric keyboard and sang songs before and after the body of the service. When he was first up there he said something like, "I don't usually talk when I'm up here because I have a fear of communication, but I wanted to say that..." and the rest is lost to me. Typical, that I'd forget the part that's supposed to matter. I remembered the beginning though because, as some may know, a fairly sure way for a guy to attract my interest, at least momentarily, is to confess or seem to exude shyness. As soon as his songs were over this guy (Brian? His name started with a B) practically fled the stage without a word, and I watched to see where he sat.

After everything was over I went up and thanked him for singing, and he thanked me, saying that not many people ever say anything about it. He introduced himself, asked if I usually came to the services, I said sometimes, etc. He is shy. He seemed to be interested in talking to me but I was an emotional wreck at the time (had a five minute throwing stuff/crying fit as soon as I could get out of the building and hide out of sight of the parking lot), and neither of us had much to say. He seemed very sweet though. Unfortunately I couldn't really judge his age and don't really have any way to find out without seeming like a complete creep/jerk. I guess I'll see him in a couple of weeks though, as I'll be leading a caving trip up at Camp this weekend.