Surrogates: It's the Church

Surrogates is my favorite kind of movie. I love films like Gattaca and The Island, and these sorts of films that make you ask “what if?” Not being a movie critic, I don’t know what you would classify them as—action/thriller/science-fiction/futuristic? But, in the tradition of Frankenstein, I love the subtle commentary they make about humanity and technology and society.

I just finished watching it and I can’t get it out of my head. The director said that the story is a metaphor for the digital age that we live in and explores themes having to do with our obsession with self-image and beauty. It shows the appeal of experiencing life from the comfort and safety of your own home through technology—but not really living. It also touches on themes of identity—living out of a false self instead of facing the discomfort and pain of our own humanity.

I guess I think of these kinds of films and novels as prophetic warnings in a way. “Here’s what can happen if you go down this road…” In Surrogates we see a couple who lost their son and have become completely disconnected—they’re connected to technology but very disconnected from themselves and each other. By living through surrogates, people don’t have to deal with wrinkles, weight, disease, acne, pain, difficulty. But they’re not living.

Not too far from reality in many cases. It makes me think of how often we hide behind false selves and technology so we don’t have to deal with the harsher realities of life in this world, and we settle for experiences of pseudo-pleasure instead. My own constructivist spin on it is that it could be a movie about modern Christianity and the Church.

But, of course, the conclusion is that living with our authentic humanity, in spite of the difficulty, discomfort, and hurt that comes with it, is the only way to truly live. Hiding behind a false image isn’t truly living. I see this as a theme of God’s kingdom too. Blessed are those who recognize their humanity and their need for God, for theirs is the kingdom…

A Better Story

Last year at this time I refused to make New Year’s resolutions. I was pretty sure self-improvement plans and goal-setting were evil. Instead I was going to trust God with the plans.

But what I learned this year is that trusting God can be such a nice disguise for fear.

At one point this past year, when I was pushing back on goal-setting, my friend called me on it, “You don’t want to set goals because you fear failure.” In my head I was reaching for some holier motive having to do with trusting God, surrender, rest, or contentment. But he was right. I couldn’t deny it. I fear failure. I fear disappointment—disappointing myself or others. And so, I play it safe. And trust God.

I remember when I was getting ready one morning, looking in the mirror and thinking, “I am a one-dimensional character in my own story.” You remember from literature class—flat and round characters? Static and dynamic? The static, flat ones stay the same; they don’t change; they have no substance; they are usually peripheral characters. Round characters change; they have conflict and crises and adventure, and they’re worth reading about. I was craving the excitement and adventure of the round character, but living without a plot.

Then Don Miller stole my idea. He wrote this book about living a better story. A Million Miles in a Thousand Years. As I read it, I was confronted again with the idea that good stories involve conflict. I was going to have to face hardship and failure to tell a better story. Never mind then.

Perhaps I wanted God to write my story because I thought he would smooth the path. Remove the obstacles. Make it easy. But I know better. I wasn’t really letting him write the story at all. I was hiding behind him.

Maybe I needed that time of healing at the beginning of last year. Time without plans. Time to learn about grace and limitations. But I lingered too long like a bird that doesn’t want to leave the nest. Time to get the story moving.

Miller writes about needing an inciting incident to force our story along. “…humans naturally seek comfort and stability. Without an inciting incident that disrupts their comfort, they won’t enter into a story. They have to get fired from their job or be forced to sign up for a marathon.”

So I decided to sign up for a marathon this year.

It’s more of a symbolic gesture, really. A way to remind myself that my story isn’t over, that I can face my fears and my issues and create a beautiful story, that in spite of failure or disappointment or setbacks I can move forward and not settle for an easier story, that I will face resistance when trying to create something good but I can keep going. (Plus, I do enjoy running—I just gave it up when it got hard.)

Miller says that the great stories go to those who don’t give into fear. He describes the point at which we all want to give up on our stories and find something easier. We give up on marriages and dreams and goals because we are disappointed or tired or it’s taking too long to get where we want to go. Life is harder than we thought.

I agree with Miller’s reflection, “Part of me wonders if our stories aren’t being stolen by the easy life.” We live in a culture that says life should be easy and everything should work out for you and your God should help make your life trouble-free. And everything gets small and meaningless and easy. And one-dimensional.

Trusting God ≠ ease. Trusting God = rest. But rest and ease are not the same. There’s a difficult path to God’s rest. He’s going to let things get hard. He’s still good. He’s entrusted me with a story. A redemptive story. (Aren’t those the best?) A story full of conflict and difficulty and beauty and joy.

I need to sit with him. Let him enlarge my imagination. Make the big plans. Attempt the impossible. Risk falling on my face—expect it. Receive his grace. Fail. Learn. Grow. Give him my fear. Let him give the vision. Rest. And move. Live a better story—that’s the plan this year.

The Loss of Living Here

We lose a lot of who we are when we learn to live in this world.

We can’t fully be who we were designed to be here. We teach little ones the ways of the world, and they learn quickly which parts of who they are will not be acceptable here. A lot of it is necessary, but there’s no doubt we all get squashed in order to live here. The truly free will have a hard time here.

We all start off quirky. Some adapt better than others. Some, like me, bow to the gods of status quo and become very likeable to nearly everyone by sacrificing distinctiveness. Lately I’ve been watching my three-year-old niece, who is a lot like me in nearly every way, and wondering what I’ve lost—what she’ll lose.

She is so full of life and energy and excitement. It’s a lot to handle sometimes. So we tell her the rules of living in the world. You can’t be like that, have to be more this, less that. Granted, the manipulative and depraved nature that I know in myself comes out in her and needs to be squelched—in all of us. But so much of our original design gets lost in the fray as we learn to fit, to be accepted, to remain sane, to not get hurt, to pay our bills, to be responsible, to not annoy our aunt.

I mean, I have to tell her the rules. You know, ones like “no excited, non-stop talking before 8 am.” It’s a necessary rule (to protect us both), but I feel a little bit of who she is slipping away when her big smile fades. I don’t know how long she stands by my bed waiting for me to wake up when she stays overnight with me, but when I open my eyes that big smile is there and she’s ready to explode all of who she is on me before I’m quite awake.

But to live here, in this world, we have to tell them who they can and cannot be. We all learned it. Your animated displays of emotion are not going to work out here. The face you make when you’re thinking is going to make your life difficult. Your fondness for incessant hugging is not going to be appreciated here...

The Human World has some universal rules, but there are also different rules for different worlds. Church World. American World. Suburbia World. Disney World. Sometimes it’s hard to know which rules to follow. Which status quo am I aiming for? Weird Portlander? Or proper southerner? Nice church girl? Or unconventional revolutionary? So, we end up just trying to create an identity based on the cues we’ve been given in the world we're in.

Won’t it be beautiful when we’re all finally free of the rules of this world? Free to be who we were created to be without concern for the rules of living far from home? I am moving closer to a taste of that freedom now, but I look forward to the day when I arrive and find out who I am really. And who you are.

That We May Live

My mother Ease
My father Fear
      they coddle me
      in their bed
      and shower me
      with promises

There, I hover just above life
      Watching, but not living
            and not growing
            and not hurting
            and not loving

Like surfing on the madding crowd
      moving but unmoved
      as they pass me around
But the one who loves me will drop me
      and let me break
      and walk away
      and wait (and ache)
      until I can only crawl to him
      and lay
      prostrate on my face
      alive

This is the one who loves
This is the one who loves
       Oh True Father
       I am your daughter

Come, let us return to the LORD. He has torn us to pieces but he will heal us; he has injured us but he will bind up our wounds. After two days he will revive us; on the third day he will restore us, that we may live in his presence. Hosea 6:1-2

The Call of the Wild One

Something fierce and untamed,
It calls out my name—
A lure that is stifled
By what I conceive.

By details and triflings,
The worries of life,
By lovers and leavers,
And all that seems right,

Religion and duty
And all our designs—
The towers of Babel
I raise day and night—

All drown out His ardor,
The sound of His voice,
So even His keening
Just seems like more noise.

Still the wild One pursues,
Disdaining restraint,
And all my feigned order
He’ll raze in the fight—

The one that He’s fighting
So that I can hear
His savage wail calling
For me to come near.

"He's wild, you know. Not like a tame lion." - C.S. Lewis

A Christmas Story

Christmas, for me, has changed since I entered the story. I’m starting to get it. I’m learning to worship Christ at Christmas instead of bowing to the gods of consumerism. I heard someone say recently that consumerism is individualism on steroids. And we tend to build our individual kingdoms of self most at the very time of year we ought to celebrate Christ’s kingdom. If Christmas is really a Christian holiday, why does it look so much like bowing at this culture’s high places of idolatry? Even efforts to “Christianize” Christmas seem to be no more than the same old thing with a Christian veneer — we pad the pockets of Christian retailers or really take a stand for Christ by having the audacity to only buy from retailers who will use the word Christmas to promote consumerism. (Using Christ’s name in vain? Hmm…)

I heard on a Christian radio station recently a plug for a book about how to keep Christ in Christmas. I expected something counter-cultural, but I was appalled that the strategy seemed to center around innocuous decorating ideas—using more nativity scenes and spelling out Christian words with lights. Is that what entering the Christ story looks like? If so, I’d rather bask in my own brand of debauchery! (Which, I think, is the attitude of many in my generation, and is why so many are opting out of a Christian religion that only seems to offer platitude and pretense—but that’s a whole other post…)

But there’s a way of celebrating Christmas that doesn’t just include Christ, it is Christ-centered and Kingdom-oriented. It involves acknowledging the advent, or arrival, of God incarnate coming to earth to rescue us from ourselves, to redeem our brokenness, to set us free from captivity, to transform our warped ways of living, to give us life, and to bring his righteousness, peace, and joy. That is a story worth entering...

www.adventconspiracy.com

Story

As I stood outside the Paramount Theater holding a sign and directing people toward dubious parking spots last Wednesday, I feared that I might not be hip enough for the Story Conference. Watching the flood of artists and pastors arrive in their Chuck Taylors, army jackets, and square-rimmed glasses, carrying cardboard coffee cups, it seemed as if they had let Portland, Oregon loose on the small city of Aurora, Illinois.

I felt like both an insider and an outsider—much the way I felt when I lived in Portland. As the crowd streamed by me, I thought, these are my people. These people are into what I’m into and love what I love. They love the gospel story. They value symbolism and Kingdom vision. They embrace brokenness and condemn consumerism. Beyond the trendy urban garb, they want to live authentic lives and tell a better story—one of restoration and reconciliation. That’s why we’re all here. That’s why we’ve come to this nebulously named conference in the middle of Illinois.

But I was there alone, like I was in Portland. And it started to get to me—this feeling like I’m on the outside, an insignificant part of something great. On the fringe, but wanting to be in the inner circle, to be known and valued, integral even. Maybe that’s why I volunteered at the conference—directing people to restaurants I’d never heard of at lunch time and helping latecomers find a seat. Besides getting in for free, I wanted to offer something worthwhile. But I felt small.

And that was my struggle as I listened to various world changers tell their stories. I wondered if I’m OK with being a small part of a big story? There is an amazing metanarrative unfolding, a grand drama. And I have a role. But what if my role is small? I have to admit, I want to be a big deal. I always have. I want to be on stage, I want to be published, I want to be respected and admired.

But then, it’s not about me. I’m not the point of the story. One of the artists who spoke at the conference wrote and illustrated a children’s book called Fool Moon Rising that describes the moon’s attempts to steal glory from the sun. It was a timely parable to remind me that I shine only by reflection. “For who makes you different from anyone else? What do you have that you did not receive? And if you did receive it, why do you boast as though you did not?” (1 Cor 4:7)

The heroes of great stories do not become such by seeking vain glory, but by self-sacrifice, by being willing to be fools. Over and over, I was reminded at the conference that God’s story is best told through my brokenness. As I die to my story and let my life be part of a bigger story of God’s kingdom coming to earth, God’s glory and light is revealed. Wow.

The truth is, I am a big deal to God. I am known and valued. So much so that he invites me into his story, to partner with him in relationship. I get to be a part of the greatest story ever told, to tell his story with my life. By loving, by giving. In pain, in brokenness. Through freedom, through restoration. His story is being told. It’s all about him. And it’s beautiful.

Your kingdom come. Your will be done. On earth as it is in heaven.