REORIENTING
May 2, 2017
What do I want from you?
I want a meaningful life. This desire has driven me in two different directions: in the direction of work, and in the direction of relationships.
I often realize that I need both, but cannot have both as fully as I want to. When I put effort into work, I wonder, "Who is this for?" When I put effort into relationships, I ask: "What are we for?"
But either of these are but a glimpse of the true Meaning I seek. You, Lord, are that meaning, that purpose, that end. And I want to hear you speak to me again.
Oh, God, please talk to me. I need to hear your voice explain my life. I need your words to organize my chaos, just as your words organized the cosmos at the beginning of all things. I need you. Where did you go? Did I do something wrong?
Remember my affliction and my wanderings,
the wormwood and the gall!
My soul continually remembers it
and is bowed down within me.
But this I call to mind,
and therefore I have hope:
The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases;
his mercies never come to an end;
they are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
(Lamentations 3:19-23)
Monday, July 3, 2017
Thursday, March 30, 2017
A Poem of Victory I Wrote for Class
THE UNDYING
I never lose;
When I do, I refuse
to let my captors
be the only ones
laughing;
(Heck) He’s the one
who’s dragging
All this weight
through the muck
As I gaze at the sky,
At the trees passing
by,
And the birdies
flying high:
They’re free like me,
no
sweat, no fret, no
debt to repay; I’m
Cruising through the
pain. These
rocks, these thorns
cut
flesh, draw blood, I
draw
strength from every
ribbon made.
I’m being re-made
into an image that’s
invisible and powerful—
fit for the bliss
that I’m going to.
Sunday, March 12, 2017
To the Choir I Love
GENEVANS ON A BEACH IN GEORGIA
3/8/2017
At the world's End:
Strolling beside the tide,
Silhouettes on glassy sand,
Bathing in blue starlight
Singing to the King.
Mortals no more;
Here we are
At last
.
Monday, February 27, 2017
What Should We Remember?
JACQUES ELLUL'S PROPHETIC STATEMENT ON SEEING VS. HEARING
I came across this while preparing for a research paper. This excerpt is taken from The Humiliation of the Word, pages 122-124. Ellul may impress some people as just a hater of images in general; however, the intent of his book is not to attack the visual/imaginative, but to recover the lingual/auditory. Approach with an open mind and with patience.
* * * * *
When a person is concerned with taking pictures, however, he worries about the choice of scene to be preserved (an option that separates out one piece to be remembered from the overall scene). Thus we become locked entirely into the visual problem alone. We abandon any effort at overall impression; what might have been an authentic experience is reduced to mere spectacle. Furthermore, even if you are a specialist, you become preoccupied with manipulating and fussing with the camera; the lighting and the search for the best angle lock you into a technical exercise that radically blocks out any intellectual process or reflection, the offering of yourself to the wind, the sea, or the flow of people. Even more, these concerns prevent the surging of deep exaltation in the presence of something unique; if you are a Christian, you are prevented from thanking God. No, the camera is in command. You no longer really see anything; you look at and hunt for what you are going to photograph.
When the picture is finally taken, notice that all travelers suddenly lose interest in everything else: the job to be done has been taken care of. What else could they possibly do in the midst of the ruins of the Parthenon? Suddenly they wonder what they are doing there. Once the memory has been frozen on film, they are suddenly bored. The picture diminishes enormously the experience of a trip; it externalizes it, prevents internalization, and concentrates everything on the "visual souvenir."
Looking at the picture later recalls "memories": a certain gesture or word spoken. That is all there is. It recalls no deep perception. This is obvious when one listens to the talk and conversation of people who show slides of their trips. Everything is reduced to superficialities. Just as the process of picture taking hacked off one piece of the overall reality that was to be lived, in the same way the picture, once shown, obliterates the living memory.
Memory is part of my total life. It appears and disappears, depending on the transcription of a whole world which I have assimilated and which is part of me. It is not just a product of memorization, but a progression dependent on the basis of my relationship with the reality integrated into my culture and my total experience of life. Every memory is like a many-sided and multicolored cube in an enormous mosaic.
Pictures prohibit this movement and this return. They deal with the "picturesque," which will always be the most superficial. Here sensitivity is directed to a spectacular view and nothing else. And seeing it again causes the rebirth of false memories that are purely superficial and utterly useless. Such pictures serve no good purpose.
I can just hear the angry shouts: "You know perfectly well that you forget! Pictures serve to remind you... without pictures, you will forget that you went to..., that you saw the mural of La Parisienne at...." What an enormous error! What deserves to be remembered—whatever has been lived deeply—is engraved in my being and in my memory. It changed me and made me a new person.
What about all the things I've forgotten? For it is certainly true that I have forgotten thousands of places, faces, and paintings. The things I've forgotten are simply those that meant nothing to me, those I did not live, which were just empty curiosities that remained foreign to me. They offered me nothing of value, no truth. In this case, what good is it to preserve such things on scraps of paper? I was dumbfounded by the mountains on the horizon. What picture could do anything for me? And if all I saw was a spectacle, why bother to remember it? Pictures are just an effort to prove that we really went somewhere!—that we really made the trip.
Here we have reached an essential aspect of images: in the modern identity crisis, in the midst of technical change and dispersion, images give us some certainty that we exist. Pictures assure us of our past; leafing through a picture album makes me certain that I have lived. The picture becomes the substitute for something living, just as images always do. It is the elimination of the personal and existential relationship with the world, cutting oneself off from the milieu, from other people. And it is the means of not being subject to the impact of anything new. It is also the dreamed-of substitute in terms of a false, frozen reality that takes the place of the inability to face life.
This is very symptomatic of technique: it prevents us from living but gives us the strong impression that we are living, assuring us that we are really alive! "After all," they say, "look at these faces; look at your friends. Freeze up that happy, marvelous moment: the child playing, the child looking up at you. Rediscover the faces of your dear departed ones...." What a lie. Either you loved them and their faces are engraved in you, woven into your thought, your worldview, and your daily experience, or you did not love them. In that case, what good are pictures? What good is it to hang on to these faces from a given moment, these expressions on shiny paper or film, if you do not have their absence burning within you?
Their absence is neither filled up nor ensured by looking at this picture. No, let's not have pictures of dear ones who are no longer with us. We should say with the poet (whose name I won't mention, since he isn't in fashion!): "Since the game is over, put down the cards; throw them away." The picture of these faces is a lie I tell myself, believing that I cared about these people, whereas no trace of them is left in me. It is another lie based on something visual: an image. What could you say about these people you loved? What language would be appropriate? What truth did you live because of them? What did you go through together? What of that remains with you? If you remain silent, the picture is nothing but an illusion. And if you can talk about these things, the picture should be thrown away.
* * * * *
Again, it is easy to miss the point here and to think that Ellul is simply a cranky old man annoyed with modern visual culture. But the hyperbolic language (I don't actually think he's too adamant about throwing away pictures of departed loved ones) is meant to shake people out of stupor, to realize the attitudes underneath our frequent activities that we are unaware of. And in our age, it seems that we are losing more and more of the ability to hold important things in our hearts, to agonize over and to love without ceasing.
Writing more than two decades before the advent of Facebook, Ellul's prophetic voice still rings relevant today.
I came across this while preparing for a research paper. This excerpt is taken from The Humiliation of the Word, pages 122-124. Ellul may impress some people as just a hater of images in general; however, the intent of his book is not to attack the visual/imaginative, but to recover the lingual/auditory. Approach with an open mind and with patience.
* * * * *
When a person is concerned with taking pictures, however, he worries about the choice of scene to be preserved (an option that separates out one piece to be remembered from the overall scene). Thus we become locked entirely into the visual problem alone. We abandon any effort at overall impression; what might have been an authentic experience is reduced to mere spectacle. Furthermore, even if you are a specialist, you become preoccupied with manipulating and fussing with the camera; the lighting and the search for the best angle lock you into a technical exercise that radically blocks out any intellectual process or reflection, the offering of yourself to the wind, the sea, or the flow of people. Even more, these concerns prevent the surging of deep exaltation in the presence of something unique; if you are a Christian, you are prevented from thanking God. No, the camera is in command. You no longer really see anything; you look at and hunt for what you are going to photograph.
When the picture is finally taken, notice that all travelers suddenly lose interest in everything else: the job to be done has been taken care of. What else could they possibly do in the midst of the ruins of the Parthenon? Suddenly they wonder what they are doing there. Once the memory has been frozen on film, they are suddenly bored. The picture diminishes enormously the experience of a trip; it externalizes it, prevents internalization, and concentrates everything on the "visual souvenir."
Looking at the picture later recalls "memories": a certain gesture or word spoken. That is all there is. It recalls no deep perception. This is obvious when one listens to the talk and conversation of people who show slides of their trips. Everything is reduced to superficialities. Just as the process of picture taking hacked off one piece of the overall reality that was to be lived, in the same way the picture, once shown, obliterates the living memory.
Memory is part of my total life. It appears and disappears, depending on the transcription of a whole world which I have assimilated and which is part of me. It is not just a product of memorization, but a progression dependent on the basis of my relationship with the reality integrated into my culture and my total experience of life. Every memory is like a many-sided and multicolored cube in an enormous mosaic.
Pictures prohibit this movement and this return. They deal with the "picturesque," which will always be the most superficial. Here sensitivity is directed to a spectacular view and nothing else. And seeing it again causes the rebirth of false memories that are purely superficial and utterly useless. Such pictures serve no good purpose.
I can just hear the angry shouts: "You know perfectly well that you forget! Pictures serve to remind you... without pictures, you will forget that you went to..., that you saw the mural of La Parisienne at...." What an enormous error! What deserves to be remembered—whatever has been lived deeply—is engraved in my being and in my memory. It changed me and made me a new person.
What about all the things I've forgotten? For it is certainly true that I have forgotten thousands of places, faces, and paintings. The things I've forgotten are simply those that meant nothing to me, those I did not live, which were just empty curiosities that remained foreign to me. They offered me nothing of value, no truth. In this case, what good is it to preserve such things on scraps of paper? I was dumbfounded by the mountains on the horizon. What picture could do anything for me? And if all I saw was a spectacle, why bother to remember it? Pictures are just an effort to prove that we really went somewhere!—that we really made the trip.
Here we have reached an essential aspect of images: in the modern identity crisis, in the midst of technical change and dispersion, images give us some certainty that we exist. Pictures assure us of our past; leafing through a picture album makes me certain that I have lived. The picture becomes the substitute for something living, just as images always do. It is the elimination of the personal and existential relationship with the world, cutting oneself off from the milieu, from other people. And it is the means of not being subject to the impact of anything new. It is also the dreamed-of substitute in terms of a false, frozen reality that takes the place of the inability to face life.
This is very symptomatic of technique: it prevents us from living but gives us the strong impression that we are living, assuring us that we are really alive! "After all," they say, "look at these faces; look at your friends. Freeze up that happy, marvelous moment: the child playing, the child looking up at you. Rediscover the faces of your dear departed ones...." What a lie. Either you loved them and their faces are engraved in you, woven into your thought, your worldview, and your daily experience, or you did not love them. In that case, what good are pictures? What good is it to hang on to these faces from a given moment, these expressions on shiny paper or film, if you do not have their absence burning within you?
Their absence is neither filled up nor ensured by looking at this picture. No, let's not have pictures of dear ones who are no longer with us. We should say with the poet (whose name I won't mention, since he isn't in fashion!): "Since the game is over, put down the cards; throw them away." The picture of these faces is a lie I tell myself, believing that I cared about these people, whereas no trace of them is left in me. It is another lie based on something visual: an image. What could you say about these people you loved? What language would be appropriate? What truth did you live because of them? What did you go through together? What of that remains with you? If you remain silent, the picture is nothing but an illusion. And if you can talk about these things, the picture should be thrown away.
* * * * *
Again, it is easy to miss the point here and to think that Ellul is simply a cranky old man annoyed with modern visual culture. But the hyperbolic language (I don't actually think he's too adamant about throwing away pictures of departed loved ones) is meant to shake people out of stupor, to realize the attitudes underneath our frequent activities that we are unaware of. And in our age, it seems that we are losing more and more of the ability to hold important things in our hearts, to agonize over and to love without ceasing.
Writing more than two decades before the advent of Facebook, Ellul's prophetic voice still rings relevant today.
Friday, February 24, 2017
Cryptic Update
INTO LIGHT OR SIN I PLUNGE
Naivety;
Hope;
Fear;
Love;
Pain;
Grit;
Reality;
Taken together, tortures
but awakens, liberates—
resurrects.
Naivety;
Hope;
Fear;
Love;
Pain;
Grit;
Reality;
Taken together, tortures
but awakens, liberates—
resurrects.
Wednesday, January 4, 2017
Third Semester Reflection
FORTITUDE IN FELLOWSHIP OR: HOW TO DEAL WITH THE PERENNIAL QUESTIONS
In the wake of my experiences in Agape Youth Fellowship and in National Service, my view on faithfulness became one that stressed humility, perceptiveness, and self-control. I was traumatized by the memory of myself as a prideful, hypocritical, idealistic, and detached leader of the youth fellowship, and was later baffled by the impracticality of my theology in the context of gangsters and gods at the military camp. Hence I reacted against my overly intellectual approach to faith, and began trying to learn the practical and aesthetic aspects of the Bible and of theology.
I also became extremely afraid of being assertive; I decided that I would rather be wronged than wrong. Dealing with the effects of other people's bad decisions seemed easier than dealing with guilt. And so I entered college, determined to be a friendly and gracious presence, a good listener.
First Semester - And the Word Became Flesh
I think I was a little too good at it, especially in a culture like America. The cultural landscape is beset with tensions: traditional versus progressive, conservative versus liberal, capitalist versus socialist, religious versus secular, "nobody should have guns" versus "everybody should have guns", #blacklivesmatter versus #alllivesmatter, cessationism versus continuationism, and—on a college campus—brains versus brawns versus beauts, to put it quite crudely.
Being the way I was at the time, I almost always took the effort to think about the subtext underlying such tensions. I knew what I would instinctively prefer in each case, but having learned to react against my reactions, I would ask, "What do I really want? What are the real reasons that people hold the opposing view? Is it possible to hold the opposing view out of good intentions?"
Although doing so was intellectually rewarding, taking me to depths in my thinking that I never dreamed existed, it was also the most emotionally exhausting discipline I ever knew. Because I not only tried to find common ground for different points of view on political and religious spectrums, I was trying to reconcile cultures (geographical and historical), philosophies, and even personality types. I kept finding myself "in-between," and it was especially hard in a land where I already had very little sense of belonging.
I found myself very lonely very quickly, not due to a lack of company but a lack of understanding. Which soul could I share myself with who could understand the same in-between-ness that I suffer? The only person I found was Dr. Miller, who understands both culture shock and growing up with a psychological disorder (stuttering for him, ASD for me). The few opportunities I had to speak to him were quite vital in keeping me sane for my first semester. But he was busy, and so was I, and times for heartfelt conversations were scarce.
Loneliness led to bitterness. I often felt like I was the only one trying to restore a fractured world, which, even if it were true (which it wasn't), would not really give me the right to blame those who weren't doing the same thing. The truth is, whatever virtue is present in this cosmos-embracing attitude of mine did not come from me. I was graced with it, awakened to it, given it. I was not always like this. Of course, this sometimes made me even more bitter; I felt like God intentionally put me in a difficult place, at the intersection of many tensions. "This is ridiculous," I thought, "Why am I trying so hard to please everyone?" But in my endeavor to see reality as it is, I knew that even the most laughable perspectives holds some kernel of God's truth, however twisted—and these kernels needed to be rescued. I saw no alternative.
It was timely that I kept hearing about the person of Christ that first semester. Our chaplain preached from John 1 a number of times. In Old Testament studies, we learned about the anguish of Christ's heart as seen in the Psalms, and his act of "standing in the gap" as seen in the prophetic books. In my humanities class, the example of Christ was the crux of the main themes. And one particular scene mentioned in that class stuck with me throughout the semester: Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane, praying, "My father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me; nevertheless, not as I will, but as you will."
Jesus was truly in-between and truly alone, suspended between heaven and earth, caught between the wrath of men and the wrath of God, ready to be crushed—obedient, patient. Having such an image in my mind did not exactly alleviate the suffering and loneliness, but it provided a satisfactory explanation for it. It felt like I was losing everything, but I knew I was gaining Christ somehow.
Near the end of my first semester, I wrote this prayer in my journal:
Father, teach me
To be myself and to be a member,
To be present and to be everywhere and every time,
To be at rest and to be at war,
To strive and to wait patiently,
To be self-conscious and self-forgetful,
To be on earth and in heaven,
To be full of sorrow and full of joy,
To give and to receive,
To hold on and to let go,
To seek knowledge and to honor mystery,
To love and to hate,
To die and to live.
Amen.
Second Semester - Mystery in Meekness and Majesty
I was busier my second semester. I was taking a full 20 credits, singing in the choir, and working 10 hours a week in the cafeteria. Somehow I still decided to write and direct a short film with a friend.
Because of my workload and schedule, I slowly forgot how to reflect. I continued to write in my journal, but as the semester went by my entries became increasingly shorter, and the to-do lists following them became longer. I in fact became afraid of taking time to reflect on my life and faith, because I often found that I couldn't transition back into work-mode—especially whenever I remembered how lonely I felt. I couldn't afford to stop and think, because it was so hard to get going again.
I was aware of the slow death that was happening to my introspective tendencies, but I did not know what to do about it. Of course, this was the price I paid for trying to see all things as important and valid without a sense of priority. I wanted to get top grades, to thrive in social life, to excel in artistic endeavors, to make some kind of an impact on campus, and to actually learn and retain class content. But what of spiritual needs and duties? These suffered because they were not things I could do in work-mode.
Here is where fleshly pride and faithfulness met. For while I (to a degree) had control over grades, social standing, artistic excellence, and intellectual growth, before Scripture and in prayer I seemed to lose all control. What can I bring to God? What visible results could I bring forth through the spiritual disciplines? If I sat down for two hours and worked on an essay or a screenplay, or spent two hours with my friends, it's more than likely that there would be some kind of a result; I would have a couple of pages written, or I would have learned a little more about my friends.
But the spiritual disciplines? They threw me into complete turmoil almost every time. I would leave devotional time feeling like I knew less about God than before, that I was farther away from him, that I was worse of a person. What kind of a result is that? How do I explain it to other people? So my time in prayer and in meditating on the Word decreased gradually, so that I could continue to fulfill my mental image of a suffering messiah trying to do everything and save everyone. I became addicted to the feeling of pouring myself dry and feeling miserable about it and yet still hiding it from other people. It made me feel noble.
It was kind of disgusting. But it was simpler this way. Thus I continued to stretch my capacity for empathy, remaining steadfast in my in-between-ness.
My second semester led me to more interesting difficulties with the integration of all things, especially at the practical level. For while I prided myself on being a person of empathy, I realized that I had difficulty empathizing with indifference or hostility. In other words, I was hostile against hostile points of view. Was I still a person of empathy? There were many times when I caught myself viscerally reacting against other people's visceral reactions to things. "You judge too quickly," I would think, and then, "...but so did I."
As a Christian, clearly I understood the need for absoluteness and firmness to some degree; I'm not a relativist. But I was so traumatized by my own hostility as youth leader that I was ready for all hostility to disappear from human interaction—itself a hostile thought, really. Because of this I began to feel inconsistent, and began trying to wrap my mind around the paradoxical idea that, to be truly and wholly sympathetic, I must also be able to sympathize with a lack of sympathy.
I was stuck. This intellectual difficulty was reflected in the rest of my daily living. I was even more hesitant than before to assert anything, to judge anything. I realized that, even though other people weren't expending the same energy that I was at reconciliation, it didn't mean that their work in discerning the good from the bad had any less value. Suddenly, I had nothing to say about anything to anyone.
After a long search for answers, I found questions. I had discovered the mystery inherent in all things, and it baffled me. There seemed like no way I could win.
And so I lost. I let this "sacred doctrine" of mine come under scrutiny, this doctrine of messianic suffering and agonistic living (as in "agony"). I was right that things are never so simple, and that a Christlike sense of painful alienation was to be expected in the Christian life; however, life isn't as simple as constantly admitting that things aren't so simple, either, and the Christian life consists in more than just pure suffering. I finally began to relent before the Mystery, and in doing so I—strangely—found myself seeing more of the Truth.
Perhaps constantly being in-between wasn't always the best idea. But what alternative did I have?
When I flew back from Rome after my study trip, I walked into an empty apartment room. No homework assignments, no roommates, no social activities. I felt a violent relief—and proceeded to have a massive emotional meltdown.
Summer Break - The Kingdom Belongs to Such as These
Growing up is a strange thing. On the one hand, I want to become stronger and more mature. On the other hand, there is a kind of innocence and wildness that I feel a desire—even an obligation—to preserve. Because of college, I certainly learned much, matured much, became tougher. But where is the boy? Did I become a different person altogether, defeated by the pressures of the world? Who am I?
I not only succeeded in breaking out of my shell, I broke my shell. When I had nothing more to reconcile and integrate, no more professors and friends to please, suddenly I was not sure what to do. I had no comfort zone to return to, because I didn't even remember what I was comfortable with anymore. I was numb, and the numbness frustrated me.
In search of the missing boy, I dug into my hard drive and found some of my past creative works, including incomplete ones. What used to be attempts at self-expression became objects of historical interest; I studied the scripts and story ideas I wrote long ago, trying to find out what was important to little Josh. And as I mentioned in a previous post, my stories usually had themes of loneliness, fantasy, awakening, and purpose. The turning point of the story was almost never about the hero breaking through his obstacles; it was about him coming to a new perspective on things. I suppose that was little Josh's view on life: the happy ending comes with changing oneself, not changing the environment.
I also binge-played video games that summer. I revisited many of the old worlds that I used to spend hours exploring. Although I grew bored of most of them quickly, the experience was nostalgic and reminded me of the wonder that I used to feel in such worlds. I used to have a sense of adventure, a hope for a life defined by both purpose and freedom. Purpose and freedom. What bliss! How am I to attain both in this life? Could I possibly?
I became addicted to one particular game for the remainder of summer break, called Heroes of the Storm. Being of the MOBA genre, the game was intense and required much strategy and quick reactions; every match was sure to get my adrenaline going. But even as I was hooked on it, I became aware that I was looking for something more than just pure victory—I wanted to know how I best function as a person, in a setting where both teammates and enemies are dealt to me at random. Am I an initiator? A supporter? A tank? A damage-dealer? A specialist? Somehow it seemed very important for me to find out.
The more I played, however, the more I learned (through much frustration) that whatever character I selected and whatever strategy I developed beforehand, it was impossible to determine the game at the outset. Much of the game was about responding in real time to sudden changes, and for me that was particularly frustrating. Being an idealist, I hated uncertainty, mystery. But the all-or-nothing approach of idealists had no place in this game, and I slowly learned that, to have the best chance at defeating the enemy, I had to take things one step at a time. I had to make decisions in the moment without a complete certainty of whether it would work. And if it didn't work, I had to put aside my panic and think calmly about what else I could do. I had to make compromises. I had to apologize to my teammates, and not only own up to my mistakes but keep them from discouraging me in the fight.
And that's how the boy was preserved that summer, in the midst of growing pains. As I played, I also contemplated; and the result was that I was able to reconcile the dreams of youth with the demands of adulthood, to a large extent. The idealistic boy found a new ideal: the practical man.
Third Semester - Be Strong and Courageous
Thus my project came full circle—sympathy embracing a lack thereof. In this respect, I maintained my integrity; I did not give up on being sympathetic, but rather pushed the ideal to its fullest extent, reaching the far end of the spectrum, learning to be a tactical, practical thinker.
Hence this past semester I was determined to learn grit. My responsibilities certainly demanded it; I was taking four history classes in addition to Hebrew, and I was still in the choir. But most importantly, I was employed as a resident assistant.
The time demands of being a resident assistant were not as great as I thought they would be. But the position itself called for much attentiveness to various aspects of living. An RA is expected to be a decent student, a good communicator, firm in principles but gentle in method, a team player, and having some sign of a lively faith. Those are, at least, the expectations of the Residence Life department. Student expectations vary even more; some residents prefer a laissez-faire oversight from RA's, and others hope for greater involvement (of various kinds, depending on their interests). And the problem is that I would never know which method is preferred until I am affirmed or critiqued—with males, critique is usually more likely.
Personally, the most disturbing idea was that at the end of the school year, my residents would likely give me nothing more than a passing thought: good RA, bad RA, mediocre RA. I've heard similar comments about other RA's, and being in the position made me feel very vulnerable to critique. I certainly hoped to do my best, but I also knew the futility of trying to please everyone.
Thus I had to be gritty, because there seemed like few ways that an RA could be more annoying than to be unsure of what to do or why he has the job (which describes me to an extent). So I made clear at the beginning of the semester that I would try to do room checks every week, and that each room should expect me on a certain day of the week. Promising to do it made sure that I had no way out, and consequently I was able to put aside the awkwardness of the first few room checks. Eventually I found out that my residents generally thought I was okay, and that I was worrying too much about it.
I also tried to approach my relationships with a little more structure and predictability compared to freshman year, where I felt the need to ceaselessly explore new social opportunities, as if there was always some neglected soul out there for me to befriend. As a result I had conversations with less people overall, but with greater depth.
I said "no" to many opportunities for involvement, knowing my limits and priorities. Many times I had to contain my excitement, think about my workload, and finally realize that it would be safer not to do it. I was becoming more and more practical. My inner idealist was okay with it. So far so good.
My prayer life changed as well. What used to be infrequent and impassioned prayers became more consistent and calm. (I'm still not sure how wise of a tradeoff this was.) I learned to repress the idea that a prayer without passion is hardly a prayer. Instead I began to expect that God would hear me with seriousness despite my flawed attitude or scarcity of religious affections. My perception of the nature of grace has shifted.
This change toward stability was good for me, but something was still wrong. I was still stressed, but in a more subtle, dark way. Whereas during the previous two semesters I experienced stress as a sharp and sudden emotion, this semester I experienced it as a heavy, slow-building sensation that was even harder to release. I found it even harder to share my feelings with people, and had more of a tendency to tell people that I was all right. After all, my new way of dealing with problems was to solve them, not to seek for sympathy.
I powered through the rest of the semester, continuing to keep what seemed like a healthy balance of schoolwork, social interaction, leisure, and spiritual disciplines. During finals week, as I checked my residents out of the hall one by one, I was eager about the end of the semester. I made it, and I did well.
The day before I left, I checked out my last resident and completed hall clean-ups with the RA team. After a brief farewell meeting with the team, I went into my room and broke down.
Epilogue: Fortitude in Fellowship
What was wrong?
There was a pattern throughout the entire 16 months I was here that I did not notice as I was trying to deal with all my intellectual and emotional difficulties. There was a hidden pride driving my endeavors, and it can be detected in the fact that when I have a problem, I never really ask other people for help. I could not believe that other people have either the wisdom or the love required to meet my needs, and so I did not bother. Even when I was lonely, I would attempt to fix it by changing something about myself, instead of deciding to annoy my friends like any normal person would. I tried to be the independent one, the person who needed no one else. Again, I thought this was noble; in reality, it's somewhat conceited.
Throughout these three semesters, I learned to perceive faithfulness in various ways: as suffering, as reverence, and as self-discipline. But rarely did I think of communion as a way of faithfulness. I practiced it superficially, but I never clearly admitted to myself that I truly needed the people around me. I never admitted to myself how important these people were to me. Perhaps my pride wouldn't let me, or perhaps I was too afraid of losing them. Either way, this self-preoccupation was my ultimate flaw, the thorn in my flesh, my treasured sin. The consequence was that I never felt at home.
But it's true; I need my friends and family so much, despite the sense of independence I try to project. And before I learn to believe that, I will not only have difficulty receiving love, but it will show that I do not trust God enough. For he put these people in my life.
He established the church; yes, composed of sinners and weaklings and fools. But who am I to pretend that I'm any better? We're all in need of grace upon grace. This journey toward glory is meant for a community. The double task of integration and discernment is too great for any one person to bear. We must stumble through it together; God will lead. That is what I must learn to believe.
In Christ—connected with his members, my brothers and sisters—will I find strength.
Onto another semester. May God bless his people, as promised.
In the wake of my experiences in Agape Youth Fellowship and in National Service, my view on faithfulness became one that stressed humility, perceptiveness, and self-control. I was traumatized by the memory of myself as a prideful, hypocritical, idealistic, and detached leader of the youth fellowship, and was later baffled by the impracticality of my theology in the context of gangsters and gods at the military camp. Hence I reacted against my overly intellectual approach to faith, and began trying to learn the practical and aesthetic aspects of the Bible and of theology.
I also became extremely afraid of being assertive; I decided that I would rather be wronged than wrong. Dealing with the effects of other people's bad decisions seemed easier than dealing with guilt. And so I entered college, determined to be a friendly and gracious presence, a good listener.
First Semester - And the Word Became Flesh
I think I was a little too good at it, especially in a culture like America. The cultural landscape is beset with tensions: traditional versus progressive, conservative versus liberal, capitalist versus socialist, religious versus secular, "nobody should have guns" versus "everybody should have guns", #blacklivesmatter versus #alllivesmatter, cessationism versus continuationism, and—on a college campus—brains versus brawns versus beauts, to put it quite crudely.
Being the way I was at the time, I almost always took the effort to think about the subtext underlying such tensions. I knew what I would instinctively prefer in each case, but having learned to react against my reactions, I would ask, "What do I really want? What are the real reasons that people hold the opposing view? Is it possible to hold the opposing view out of good intentions?"
Although doing so was intellectually rewarding, taking me to depths in my thinking that I never dreamed existed, it was also the most emotionally exhausting discipline I ever knew. Because I not only tried to find common ground for different points of view on political and religious spectrums, I was trying to reconcile cultures (geographical and historical), philosophies, and even personality types. I kept finding myself "in-between," and it was especially hard in a land where I already had very little sense of belonging.
I found myself very lonely very quickly, not due to a lack of company but a lack of understanding. Which soul could I share myself with who could understand the same in-between-ness that I suffer? The only person I found was Dr. Miller, who understands both culture shock and growing up with a psychological disorder (stuttering for him, ASD for me). The few opportunities I had to speak to him were quite vital in keeping me sane for my first semester. But he was busy, and so was I, and times for heartfelt conversations were scarce.
Loneliness led to bitterness. I often felt like I was the only one trying to restore a fractured world, which, even if it were true (which it wasn't), would not really give me the right to blame those who weren't doing the same thing. The truth is, whatever virtue is present in this cosmos-embracing attitude of mine did not come from me. I was graced with it, awakened to it, given it. I was not always like this. Of course, this sometimes made me even more bitter; I felt like God intentionally put me in a difficult place, at the intersection of many tensions. "This is ridiculous," I thought, "Why am I trying so hard to please everyone?" But in my endeavor to see reality as it is, I knew that even the most laughable perspectives holds some kernel of God's truth, however twisted—and these kernels needed to be rescued. I saw no alternative.
It was timely that I kept hearing about the person of Christ that first semester. Our chaplain preached from John 1 a number of times. In Old Testament studies, we learned about the anguish of Christ's heart as seen in the Psalms, and his act of "standing in the gap" as seen in the prophetic books. In my humanities class, the example of Christ was the crux of the main themes. And one particular scene mentioned in that class stuck with me throughout the semester: Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane, praying, "My father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me; nevertheless, not as I will, but as you will."
Jesus was truly in-between and truly alone, suspended between heaven and earth, caught between the wrath of men and the wrath of God, ready to be crushed—obedient, patient. Having such an image in my mind did not exactly alleviate the suffering and loneliness, but it provided a satisfactory explanation for it. It felt like I was losing everything, but I knew I was gaining Christ somehow.
Near the end of my first semester, I wrote this prayer in my journal:
Father, teach me
To be myself and to be a member,
To be present and to be everywhere and every time,
To be at rest and to be at war,
To strive and to wait patiently,
To be self-conscious and self-forgetful,
To be on earth and in heaven,
To be full of sorrow and full of joy,
To give and to receive,
To hold on and to let go,
To seek knowledge and to honor mystery,
To love and to hate,
To die and to live.
Amen.
Second Semester - Mystery in Meekness and Majesty
I was busier my second semester. I was taking a full 20 credits, singing in the choir, and working 10 hours a week in the cafeteria. Somehow I still decided to write and direct a short film with a friend.
Because of my workload and schedule, I slowly forgot how to reflect. I continued to write in my journal, but as the semester went by my entries became increasingly shorter, and the to-do lists following them became longer. I in fact became afraid of taking time to reflect on my life and faith, because I often found that I couldn't transition back into work-mode—especially whenever I remembered how lonely I felt. I couldn't afford to stop and think, because it was so hard to get going again.
I was aware of the slow death that was happening to my introspective tendencies, but I did not know what to do about it. Of course, this was the price I paid for trying to see all things as important and valid without a sense of priority. I wanted to get top grades, to thrive in social life, to excel in artistic endeavors, to make some kind of an impact on campus, and to actually learn and retain class content. But what of spiritual needs and duties? These suffered because they were not things I could do in work-mode.
Here is where fleshly pride and faithfulness met. For while I (to a degree) had control over grades, social standing, artistic excellence, and intellectual growth, before Scripture and in prayer I seemed to lose all control. What can I bring to God? What visible results could I bring forth through the spiritual disciplines? If I sat down for two hours and worked on an essay or a screenplay, or spent two hours with my friends, it's more than likely that there would be some kind of a result; I would have a couple of pages written, or I would have learned a little more about my friends.
But the spiritual disciplines? They threw me into complete turmoil almost every time. I would leave devotional time feeling like I knew less about God than before, that I was farther away from him, that I was worse of a person. What kind of a result is that? How do I explain it to other people? So my time in prayer and in meditating on the Word decreased gradually, so that I could continue to fulfill my mental image of a suffering messiah trying to do everything and save everyone. I became addicted to the feeling of pouring myself dry and feeling miserable about it and yet still hiding it from other people. It made me feel noble.
It was kind of disgusting. But it was simpler this way. Thus I continued to stretch my capacity for empathy, remaining steadfast in my in-between-ness.
My second semester led me to more interesting difficulties with the integration of all things, especially at the practical level. For while I prided myself on being a person of empathy, I realized that I had difficulty empathizing with indifference or hostility. In other words, I was hostile against hostile points of view. Was I still a person of empathy? There were many times when I caught myself viscerally reacting against other people's visceral reactions to things. "You judge too quickly," I would think, and then, "...but so did I."
As a Christian, clearly I understood the need for absoluteness and firmness to some degree; I'm not a relativist. But I was so traumatized by my own hostility as youth leader that I was ready for all hostility to disappear from human interaction—itself a hostile thought, really. Because of this I began to feel inconsistent, and began trying to wrap my mind around the paradoxical idea that, to be truly and wholly sympathetic, I must also be able to sympathize with a lack of sympathy.
I was stuck. This intellectual difficulty was reflected in the rest of my daily living. I was even more hesitant than before to assert anything, to judge anything. I realized that, even though other people weren't expending the same energy that I was at reconciliation, it didn't mean that their work in discerning the good from the bad had any less value. Suddenly, I had nothing to say about anything to anyone.
After a long search for answers, I found questions. I had discovered the mystery inherent in all things, and it baffled me. There seemed like no way I could win.
And so I lost. I let this "sacred doctrine" of mine come under scrutiny, this doctrine of messianic suffering and agonistic living (as in "agony"). I was right that things are never so simple, and that a Christlike sense of painful alienation was to be expected in the Christian life; however, life isn't as simple as constantly admitting that things aren't so simple, either, and the Christian life consists in more than just pure suffering. I finally began to relent before the Mystery, and in doing so I—strangely—found myself seeing more of the Truth.
Perhaps constantly being in-between wasn't always the best idea. But what alternative did I have?
When I flew back from Rome after my study trip, I walked into an empty apartment room. No homework assignments, no roommates, no social activities. I felt a violent relief—and proceeded to have a massive emotional meltdown.
Summer Break - The Kingdom Belongs to Such as These
Growing up is a strange thing. On the one hand, I want to become stronger and more mature. On the other hand, there is a kind of innocence and wildness that I feel a desire—even an obligation—to preserve. Because of college, I certainly learned much, matured much, became tougher. But where is the boy? Did I become a different person altogether, defeated by the pressures of the world? Who am I?
I not only succeeded in breaking out of my shell, I broke my shell. When I had nothing more to reconcile and integrate, no more professors and friends to please, suddenly I was not sure what to do. I had no comfort zone to return to, because I didn't even remember what I was comfortable with anymore. I was numb, and the numbness frustrated me.
In search of the missing boy, I dug into my hard drive and found some of my past creative works, including incomplete ones. What used to be attempts at self-expression became objects of historical interest; I studied the scripts and story ideas I wrote long ago, trying to find out what was important to little Josh. And as I mentioned in a previous post, my stories usually had themes of loneliness, fantasy, awakening, and purpose. The turning point of the story was almost never about the hero breaking through his obstacles; it was about him coming to a new perspective on things. I suppose that was little Josh's view on life: the happy ending comes with changing oneself, not changing the environment.
I also binge-played video games that summer. I revisited many of the old worlds that I used to spend hours exploring. Although I grew bored of most of them quickly, the experience was nostalgic and reminded me of the wonder that I used to feel in such worlds. I used to have a sense of adventure, a hope for a life defined by both purpose and freedom. Purpose and freedom. What bliss! How am I to attain both in this life? Could I possibly?
I became addicted to one particular game for the remainder of summer break, called Heroes of the Storm. Being of the MOBA genre, the game was intense and required much strategy and quick reactions; every match was sure to get my adrenaline going. But even as I was hooked on it, I became aware that I was looking for something more than just pure victory—I wanted to know how I best function as a person, in a setting where both teammates and enemies are dealt to me at random. Am I an initiator? A supporter? A tank? A damage-dealer? A specialist? Somehow it seemed very important for me to find out.
The more I played, however, the more I learned (through much frustration) that whatever character I selected and whatever strategy I developed beforehand, it was impossible to determine the game at the outset. Much of the game was about responding in real time to sudden changes, and for me that was particularly frustrating. Being an idealist, I hated uncertainty, mystery. But the all-or-nothing approach of idealists had no place in this game, and I slowly learned that, to have the best chance at defeating the enemy, I had to take things one step at a time. I had to make decisions in the moment without a complete certainty of whether it would work. And if it didn't work, I had to put aside my panic and think calmly about what else I could do. I had to make compromises. I had to apologize to my teammates, and not only own up to my mistakes but keep them from discouraging me in the fight.
And that's how the boy was preserved that summer, in the midst of growing pains. As I played, I also contemplated; and the result was that I was able to reconcile the dreams of youth with the demands of adulthood, to a large extent. The idealistic boy found a new ideal: the practical man.
Third Semester - Be Strong and Courageous
Thus my project came full circle—sympathy embracing a lack thereof. In this respect, I maintained my integrity; I did not give up on being sympathetic, but rather pushed the ideal to its fullest extent, reaching the far end of the spectrum, learning to be a tactical, practical thinker.
Hence this past semester I was determined to learn grit. My responsibilities certainly demanded it; I was taking four history classes in addition to Hebrew, and I was still in the choir. But most importantly, I was employed as a resident assistant.
The time demands of being a resident assistant were not as great as I thought they would be. But the position itself called for much attentiveness to various aspects of living. An RA is expected to be a decent student, a good communicator, firm in principles but gentle in method, a team player, and having some sign of a lively faith. Those are, at least, the expectations of the Residence Life department. Student expectations vary even more; some residents prefer a laissez-faire oversight from RA's, and others hope for greater involvement (of various kinds, depending on their interests). And the problem is that I would never know which method is preferred until I am affirmed or critiqued—with males, critique is usually more likely.
Personally, the most disturbing idea was that at the end of the school year, my residents would likely give me nothing more than a passing thought: good RA, bad RA, mediocre RA. I've heard similar comments about other RA's, and being in the position made me feel very vulnerable to critique. I certainly hoped to do my best, but I also knew the futility of trying to please everyone.
Thus I had to be gritty, because there seemed like few ways that an RA could be more annoying than to be unsure of what to do or why he has the job (which describes me to an extent). So I made clear at the beginning of the semester that I would try to do room checks every week, and that each room should expect me on a certain day of the week. Promising to do it made sure that I had no way out, and consequently I was able to put aside the awkwardness of the first few room checks. Eventually I found out that my residents generally thought I was okay, and that I was worrying too much about it.
I also tried to approach my relationships with a little more structure and predictability compared to freshman year, where I felt the need to ceaselessly explore new social opportunities, as if there was always some neglected soul out there for me to befriend. As a result I had conversations with less people overall, but with greater depth.
I said "no" to many opportunities for involvement, knowing my limits and priorities. Many times I had to contain my excitement, think about my workload, and finally realize that it would be safer not to do it. I was becoming more and more practical. My inner idealist was okay with it. So far so good.
My prayer life changed as well. What used to be infrequent and impassioned prayers became more consistent and calm. (I'm still not sure how wise of a tradeoff this was.) I learned to repress the idea that a prayer without passion is hardly a prayer. Instead I began to expect that God would hear me with seriousness despite my flawed attitude or scarcity of religious affections. My perception of the nature of grace has shifted.
This change toward stability was good for me, but something was still wrong. I was still stressed, but in a more subtle, dark way. Whereas during the previous two semesters I experienced stress as a sharp and sudden emotion, this semester I experienced it as a heavy, slow-building sensation that was even harder to release. I found it even harder to share my feelings with people, and had more of a tendency to tell people that I was all right. After all, my new way of dealing with problems was to solve them, not to seek for sympathy.
I powered through the rest of the semester, continuing to keep what seemed like a healthy balance of schoolwork, social interaction, leisure, and spiritual disciplines. During finals week, as I checked my residents out of the hall one by one, I was eager about the end of the semester. I made it, and I did well.
The day before I left, I checked out my last resident and completed hall clean-ups with the RA team. After a brief farewell meeting with the team, I went into my room and broke down.
Epilogue: Fortitude in Fellowship
What was wrong?
There was a pattern throughout the entire 16 months I was here that I did not notice as I was trying to deal with all my intellectual and emotional difficulties. There was a hidden pride driving my endeavors, and it can be detected in the fact that when I have a problem, I never really ask other people for help. I could not believe that other people have either the wisdom or the love required to meet my needs, and so I did not bother. Even when I was lonely, I would attempt to fix it by changing something about myself, instead of deciding to annoy my friends like any normal person would. I tried to be the independent one, the person who needed no one else. Again, I thought this was noble; in reality, it's somewhat conceited.
Throughout these three semesters, I learned to perceive faithfulness in various ways: as suffering, as reverence, and as self-discipline. But rarely did I think of communion as a way of faithfulness. I practiced it superficially, but I never clearly admitted to myself that I truly needed the people around me. I never admitted to myself how important these people were to me. Perhaps my pride wouldn't let me, or perhaps I was too afraid of losing them. Either way, this self-preoccupation was my ultimate flaw, the thorn in my flesh, my treasured sin. The consequence was that I never felt at home.
But it's true; I need my friends and family so much, despite the sense of independence I try to project. And before I learn to believe that, I will not only have difficulty receiving love, but it will show that I do not trust God enough. For he put these people in my life.
He established the church; yes, composed of sinners and weaklings and fools. But who am I to pretend that I'm any better? We're all in need of grace upon grace. This journey toward glory is meant for a community. The double task of integration and discernment is too great for any one person to bear. We must stumble through it together; God will lead. That is what I must learn to believe.
In Christ—connected with his members, my brothers and sisters—will I find strength.
Onto another semester. May God bless his people, as promised.
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