The Autobiography (or, a story in twelve parts) Piece One

An autobiography of sorts. Which is to say, is not really an autobiography, because it is not solely my story, nor even a remotely fascinating one. It lacks dragons, swords, a recognizable climax, and a certain ending. But there it is, and I suppose there is no where better to start than the beginning…

Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away… No, that can’t be right, this story is not at all that kind of story. It is one far more humble, non-descript, something you might miss if you weren’t looking too carefully, or if you had not actually lived through it yourself. The only reason it bears being told is the wonderful intersections it makes. Nevertheless, it begins, like all stories do, with someone being born.

Someone is born, into a humble world, into a meager existence, into a life with parents, family, and a house. Life passes as normally as it can, for the first many years, through elementary school. The first life changing thing comes about.

Glasses.

Ever had glasses? If you haven’t, you should try wearing these plastic contraptions around on your face for a while. You’ll find you see the world a little differently. These manufactured windows offer a small glimpse into what life must have been like for a first grader with sight issues in the early nineties. Your life can never be the same after glasses, you know. The temptation to destroy or throw off these weighty pieces of glass is overwhelming at times. Glasses change the way we see things, whether we want that view altered or not.

Fast forward a few years, and as our subject grows (literally) taller than the rest of friends, the next life changing thing happens.

First love. Or as much love as you think you are capable of at such a young age. Which, to someone then, love is overwhelming, overpowering. It often restricts breathing, or common sense. I think it is the first glimpse of passion. Sadly, this passionate loving is often discouraged or stamped down out of fear by people much older, who experienced this passion in their own lives, and saw it wasted, or similarly stamped out.

Unfortunately, much like Romeo and Juliet, such passionate young love comes to tragic endings. A candle burns at both ends, it will not last the night. But oh, my foes, and oh my friends, but it gives a lovely light.

It gave a lovely light. The subject of love dies. And here’s where I must pause, and turn this into my story.

C.S. Lewis speaks at length on losing the subject of love, the subject of desire. Although my faith journey to this point was scripted at best, it was here that I began to seek out the source of such powerful love, of such great passion. Both in wonder, awe, and anger. For really, what better test of character, what better test of hope, than to lose life.

 

holding our breath

there was once a quote by switchfoot:

Welcome to the fallout, where the truth and the shadows have become blurred. This is the incompletion. And we are holding our breath, but look! The winds of redemption have come to within the confines of our frozen fists. “Behold, I make all things new.” And in this newness there is hope for the hopeless, where the eternal lines of the heavens collide with our own humanity. In the divine comedy where up is down and down is up, we lose ourselves to find ourselves. Love is the movement. This is the revolution.

this is the incompletion, and we are holding our breath.

friend of mine in the ministry is holding his breath; waiting for God to make clear the next path. he seems to be at a crossroads, a stepping stone between fate and destiny. where the truth and the shadows have become blurred.

the winds of redemption have come to the confines of our frozen fists; the winds of redemption have come to the confines of our many walls, our many ideas.
where we lose ourselves to find ourselves.
i have seen people walk that path before; where the frustration with the way things are turns into a hope for the way things could be.
It seems that our frustrations coming to light in the field of youth ministry, as we wrestle and struggle with them, seems to continually lead in the direction of a solution that doesn’t mean simply youth ministry.
It seems in fact, that the solution to the problem comes in the form of complete radical transformation of the entire institution. Realizing the problem is deeper than what we first imagined it to be, and hearing the calling that perhaps, we who hear and see this incongruency are solely responsible for its undoing.
But maybe this is the remedy:
that church was never meant to be what we have practiced for so long, and we can see that in the hearts of the young people we work with, and in the resonance of their spirits with something different.
I think it is that point where the youth minister stops being a youth minister, and starts being what you have heard the whispers in your ears telling you that you are…

 

I could be cliche, but I’ll refrain and start with a chorus…

I do this thing called youth ministry.

Which also means I often turn into a parent, a teacher, a hugger, a coach, a pick-me-up-after-school-er, an artist, a painter, a mr fixit, a journalist, a video tech, a printer un-jam-er, a task master, a telemarketer, a scape goat, and possibly my favorite, mind-reader.
(Youth ministers are psychic, didn’t you know?)

Sometimes I do this thing called graphic design. Some might call it therapy.

But I miss being a writer.