Gone Is the Old Year

Today is Christian New Year: the First Sunday of Advent. I'm thinking of it as "Christian New Year" instead of "the start of the Christian liturgical calendar" because it sounds more outlandish, more foreign, like how Chinese New Year is a bit of an alien concept to those who aren't Chinese. Similarly, Christian New Year should sound foreign to those who do not belong to our nation: the Kingdom of Christ.

You see, for several months I've been wrestling with this notion of my Christian-ness as separate from — indeed, as opposed to — my American-ness. I was taught in childhood the myth that America was a Christian nation. My calling it a myth is not meant to make any historical claims about the American founders' faith or lack thereof; rather, regardless of the true religious status of the founders, America cannot reasonably be called a Christian nation, now as ever. What we Christians desire — peace on earth, self-destitution to provide for the poor, the welcoming of the refugee, the brotherhood of all nations, and the spread of the Good News to all by living as sacrificially as Jesus did — is antithetical to the American ideals of security, prosperity, supremacy, and exceptionalism. Living the American dream means setting aside your cross in order to build big barns and form political coalitions with the enemies of the Good News.

The irony of my saying this is not lost on me. I still have my streaming service subscription and my thousand-dollar board game collection and my fifty-dollar dinner dates and my dreams of buying a cushy house with a big yard. I haven't sold all I have to give it to the poor. I don't spend my free time in ministry.

But this isn't a "call-out" post or an indictment against anyone or a commentary on what the Christian life should or shouldn't look like. (If you feel convicted by my words, as I do, I recommend joining me in taking some time this Advent to examine Christ's words and life and consider what it means to be his disciple.) Rather, this post is a first fumbling at asking myself, what does it mean to be a Christian? Or, to put it more specifically, what does it mean to be a Christian in a non-Christian nation that nonetheless very vocally tries to misdefine what being a Christian means?

I don't have the answer, or anything close to the answer, but I'm excited to spend this new year exploring that topic. I'm excited to be in this season of waiting for Christ to arrive, wondering at his promises, and seeking to live faithfully even in the silence since he last spoke. Happy Advent, and happy new year.

Rainbows

I think I may have forgotten the reasons

That I am supposed to be sad:

It's summer, and the rains that froze

Are warm now, and playful.

I laugh at the sky's explosion and feel

The thrill of risk explode in my veins

Alongside the lightning and thunder and brilliant gold droplet

That shines in the water so briefly I miss it

Until you stop, and stoop, and hold it out, smiling,

As if to say "Look! You dropped something!"

When you know full well it wasn't mine until

You pressed it into my palm and gave me a hug.

Grey Days

There is a cloud bank.

High above my head it floats,

Threatening to rain.

A metaphor

Dear Emotion,

I know, it's weird to write a note

When all this time we've been okay

With morse code (dashes, more than dots),

But lately, I've been thinking through

The many notes I've sent to you

By telegraph. I can't recall

A time before I made the call

To open up the line to you

And let you tell me who was who.

It's comfortable, our classic way

Of talking. (Well, you never talked.

I guess it would be better said

That I was praying all along,

But that's another can of worms.)

But all that is to simply say,

I wish this were a telegram.

There's far less need for eloquence

When words are simply happenstance.

The medium means more to me

Than what I say (and more to you,

I'd wager, than the tender dreams

I burned upon the effigy

Of love), but what's the point of art

If no one's there to see the art,

And no one cares to talk about

The art, or (God forbid) the dab

Who dares to break the mold of dust

That binds the words to meaning?

I submit to you, my dear,

That what we made was truly great

Because it took your face and brought

A magnifying glass to bear

Upon the smile dancing there

Without a single word. Who needs

The words when you are so sublime

Without them? (See, the romance now

Is rather drab because I'm so

Constrained by making sure I dot

My "I"s and cross my "T"s when all

I'd really rather do is send

A simple fucking telegram.)

But even you were not the point,

Emotion; rather, dashes were,

And you were just an opportu-

Nity to use my art to say

Nothing.

I think, if I could venture back,

I'd try to use the telegrams

To send a story, not a note.

I'm sorry, but I simply think

You weren't worth the time it took

To come to that conclusion, so

I guess if I could venture back,

I'd really rather simply cut

The wire between you and me.

That's not because I think you weren't

A worthy friend. (You are! I'm glad

To have you in my life.) It's just

That now I have this awful dream

Of masterpieces: telegrams

The world will hear and marvel at.

But that is not the way it works,

'Cause every telegram I send

Is better than the one before,

But there is only so much time

And space with which to paint my song

Before I have to pencil in

The note that all the world has stood

And left the show, 'cause really, who

Would take the time and space to send

A million telegrams?

I fell. And when I fell I thought,

"How lovely is this tunnel when

It doesn't have that nasty si-

Bilance that everybody seems

To think it ought to have!" But now

I see how silly thinking that

Must be when really all the si-

Bilance is meant to do is keep

The fall from ending with a nap.

You see, Emotion, I do not

Recall a time when I was not

Obsessed with art. I thought, at first,

That you were what was wrong, and thus

The silence, all these years, for which

I must apologize, my dear,

For now I see how wrong I was

To blame you.

Do not think that I have changed.

(I mean, I have, but that's beside

The point.) I still believe that art

Will mellow out the tossing sea

That runs about within my mind,

And yet I see (or, better, I

Concede) that this must truly be

A fib that I have swallowed like

A pill. Emotion, I have ram-

Bled on for far too long. Forgive

Me! All I'd hoped to say to you

Was that I'm done avoiding you.

Sincerely, and with great remorse,

Your friend.