On Father’s Day, a sermon in a Black church usually needs the disclaimer: “Because we have problems with our earthly fathers, relating to God as a ‘heavenly father’ is difficult.” That’s because we view our relationship with God through our experiences with people. This guarantees a warped view.

Among my own warps are some weighty abandonment issues. And lately, they’ve become inflamed like a habanero on the tongue. I basically believe leaving is just something people do. People become disinterested. People get distracted. People take offense. Sometimes they die. But one way or another, they leave. And since God seems to do whatever he wants whenever he wants, this feeds a nagging suspicion He may do the same.

• “Lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world” (Matthew 28:20 KJV)
• “I will never leave nor forsake you” (Hebrews 13:5 NKJV)
• “I will not leave you comfortless; I will come to you” (John 14:18 KJV)
• And this is my favorite: “Neither height nor depth nor principalities nor powers nor past or present nor future shall be able to separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus” (Romans 8:38-39 KJV)

Through my warped filters, I hear these scriptures differently. They may say nothing can come between us, but what if that “nothing” has an asterisk? This scares me. Por favor, no me abandonas. S’il vous plaît, ne me quitte pas. How many ways can I say… please don’t leave.

It’s complicated

“I’m scared to fight, ‘cause I’m scared to bleed.
I’m scared to love, ‘cause I’m scared [you’ll] leave.”
—Jazmine Sullivan, “Fear”

The problem has progressed to the point where I can’t really get close to people, arrested by a fear of not being able to handle the rejection. Basic interactions trigger a series of alarms from “they may leave” to “are they leaving?” to “I knew it… now they’re gone.” That insecurity complicates relationships with people the same irrational way it complicates my relationship with God.

As frequently as I suspect people may abandon me, I fall into feeling God is either dead, distant, or nonexistent. The moment this happens, the motivation to do “believer” things drops sharply. “If God isn’t there, why bother?” These fears make my faith unstable.

Shaken and stirred

Last week, a friend invited me to church. And while there, a beautiful, strong, old, tender, and fearless woman saw my face and discerned it. She took my head in both hands and shook it firmly as she said to me, “I can see the confusion in your eyes. I understand that you are upset and angry. This is just a season.” As she pled, I felt God’s presence seeping through her like paper towels on a spill.

I needed someone to wake me up and say “It’s not over for you. God still is. You’re not alone. Not only does God not disavow knowledge of you, I don’t. I see you, he sees you, and there is more to your story.” I needed someone to see me. My perception of God came through it, through a person.

What I have described is the sickness that I manage. It requires assistance, like a heart that needs to be shocked out of its dysrhythmia. This is the disease I seek healing from. “If you are willing, you can make me clean” (Mark 1:40).

Fortunately, I have a handful of people who— regardless of how I grimace and curse— stay. People who stay help reorient me to a God who does not leave. They are corrective lenses that help me see past hurt-borne astigmatism. Their presence promotes healing. And they model love in observable ways that embarrass my fears publicly. They believe for me when I don’t. They believe in me when I can’t. So to those who have stayed… you don’t know what you do for me. Thank you.

Now for some dark humor to lighten the mood, watch the music video below
(or try this link if you’re using a mobile device):

Related Articles on Junkyard Salvation:

• By Your Side: A Devotional — Here’s how a love song by Sade reminds me of God’s promises to me in the Bible.
• The Darkest Night — A short confessional about why I don’t quite believe at the moment…
• Stop Making Sense — Faith does answer some questions that math won’t. Take a look at the downside to the need to understand everything.
• If, Then, But and Other Things You Said — Sacrilege as it seems, I’ve had to question how effective the Bible is. Don’t stone me. I have reasons.
• For Believers Who Have Considered Apostasy When Faith Isn’t Enuf — If you’ve never wondered if living as an Agnostic would be easier than living as a Christian, then you haven’t lived long enough. I thought about it…

“For so long, all I wanted from Christianity was for it to make sense.” —from For Believers Who Have Considered Apostasy When Faith Isn’t Enuf (Junkyard Salvation, March 28, 2012)

I’m getting into Talking Heads. Their music is aloof and funky and odd. It’s only for your ears… not your mind. One should clearly not look for intention or meaning in these songs. Their non sequitur titles and absurd lyrics warn me to expect no Grand Design. Nothing makes sense. When I realized this, I breathed a sigh of relief, and a usually overactive part of my brain took five.

My friend Joshua writes poetry. Good poetry. It doesn’t matter how good it is though. I hate poetry. I have a personal vendetta against it. It loses me at “hello.” And I hate feeling lost.

Mostly, I lack patience. I don’t want to wait for the words to wash over me and leave their impression. Poetry is like traditional photography. You have to sit in the dark with it awhile before any recognizable images appear. Ain’t nobody got time for that.

Listen. This goes for poetry and anything following its pattern: I’d rather you state your business within the first few lines, make your presentation brief, and wrap it up quick. Unfolding pretty turns of phrase takes extra time. It’s obstructive, like toy packaging.

Poetry must be savored. All of its meaning does not reveal in one pass. Some parts are mysterious. Some parts off-putting like a soft spot on an apple. Some serve no purpose but to connect two pieces that wouldn’t otherwise sit together. Reading it is messy business. Too organic. Tactile. Very inefficient. I am not a fan.

This problem lies herein: I demand to understand everything and I do not want to wait for it. If either demand goes unmet, I may reject the entirety of what’s presented.

“I guess you learn to refuse what you think you can’t handle.” —Joni Mitchell, “Ladies Man”

Suddenly last summer, I discovered I love Joni Mitchell. And Joni is poetry. I don’t know what happened. I was watching a documentary on her life and pieces of her lyrics started to pop out at me, as if in 3D.

I heard something she said and understood it. I recognized jigsaw pieces of my life fit into her story. I walked up to her poetry and touched it. It touched me back. Well, not entirely. A lot of the time, I had no idea what the hell Joni was talking about.

“I don’t have to know it all. I don’t have to be so proud and stand so tall. Climbed that mountain only to fall. I don’t have to know it all. You did that for me.” —Sara Groves

Some of her nonsensical writings required a third party to decipher. Maybe I was obtuse, but I assumed she just wasn’t talking to me. So I shut the overactive machine off, just like with Talking Heads. But that which I understood, I understood deeply, intellectually, emotionally, intuitively. I knew it was addressed to me.

Faith can be like that. It’s poetry. Slow ass, belabored poetry. Some of it, I get. Most, I do not. Why can’t you be more concisely written, like an instruction manual? Get to the point succinctly. Do the math, display your results, and get out of my office.

In my life—and unfortunately enough—God seems to only speak (and act) in poetry, words and deeds that have to be savored, analyzed, pondered, and felt. He won’t make sense. Not up front. But when the meaning finally gets to me, the outcome is an explosion of color and sound and understanding. I’ve nothing better to do. Maybe I’ll just breathe and take five.

Related articles

• Grammar and Poetry (paulmwenelupembe.wordpress.com)
• Smart People Problems (junkyardsalvation.com)
• For Believers Who Have Considered Apostasy When Faith Isn’t Enuf (junkyardsalvation.com)
• Believe In A Mystery (junkyardsalvation.com)
• Why The Bible May Not Always Be the Best Instruction Manual (xploremyfaith.com)

[This post was written between January 19, 2013 and February 14, 2013]

I am a huge Chaka Khan fan. Really big. I’ve met a lot of the artists I respect, but Chaka has eluded me like a ghost for nearly 15 years.

Back when the internet was young, I built a comprehensive website called Chaka’s House. It attracted a core of fans and established an internet presence for the fiery-haired songstress during an important time. Her management team, headed by her sister Tammy, caught wind of it and contacted me. I was thrilled! I would’ve gladly turned the site over to them to carry forward, but Chaka did not want to commercialize it.

Ain’t nothin’ but a maybe

As a consolation prize, Tammy invited me to the video shoot for “Don’t Talk To Strangers.” This was before the age of cell phones, so I had them call me at work. In a comedy of errors, my bungling co-workers didn’t pass me her message until the day after the shoot happened.

So Tammy tried again. She scored me an invitation to a scientology benefit held by Kirstie Alley featuring Chaka as the mainstage entertainer. I received the invitation in the mail the day after the event happened.

Third time’s the charm, right? Tammy called to invite me to a Prince concert Chaka was opening at The Forum. I would have loved to meet them both; however, as a struggling college student, I couldn’t afford the tickets.

Pretty frustrating. I still love her though. Something about the frequencies and vibrations she generates stirs my soul in all the best ways, but I unofficially resigned that maybe it wasn’t meant for me to meet her.

Is this my night?

Today, I have a number of friends who have met, worked with, or personally know Chaka Khan. They’ve told me great stories about her, but I still have none of my own. So last week when one of them called to invite me to sit in on a studio session with the woman herself, I could scarcely believe what I was hearing.

Nonetheless, I got ready. Pack’d my bags, put ‘em at the door. Stuffed my iPod extra full with esoteric faves from her discography: “Father He Said,” “Stay,” “The Other Side of the World,” “Let Go.” I took my framed LP of What Cha’ Gonna Do For Me off the wall, grabbed her autobiography Chaka! Through The Fire, and stowed both away in my car just in case.

To my dismay, Chaka postponed the studio session that day. And then again the next night. You know how musicians are. It may not happen at all. Again, maybe it’s just not meant to be. I was a bit deflated, but not fully. The joy she’s already brought to my life is still intact. So I listened to my songs and had a great day. Oh well. We’ll catch up some other time.

There’ll be better days

What surprised me was, even after the disappointment, I hadn’t given up hope. I decided to keep my Chaka memorabilia in the back of the car. Maybe I won’t get to hug her, smile giddily, and thank her for the inspiration. But you never know. That call could still come in.

By the same token, I’ve weathered a number of Jesus-related disappointments too. Those setbacks lead me to think my ability to believe was broken. Lately, I wonder whether Jesus is coming back at all. Maybe everything I’ve been taught was wrong and I won’t see my savior face-to-face. I’m a little deflated. But what he’s already done for me is still intact. So I keep an ember of expectation glowing. Any day that call could come in too. You never know.

“I believe in love
I believe in peace
I believe someday you’ll return for me
I believe in things that I can not see
And when my heart says, “no”
I still believe.”
—Crystal Lewis, “I Still Believe”

Related articles

• Chaka Khan Debuts New Single & ‘Chakalates’ For Valentine’s Day (947thewave.cbslocal.com)
• Whitney Houston’s Death Avoidable? Chaka Khan Talks ‘Demonic’ Music Industry (christianpost.com)
• Chaka Khan Dishes On Weight Loss & Wisdom With Jet Magazine [PHOTOS] (newstalkcleveland.com)
• It Might Be Hope (junkyardsalvation.com)
• Why I Believe In God (junkyardsalvation.com)

“Skepticism is the beginning of faith.”
—Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

What if, some glad morning when this life is over, none of us fly away? What if the lights go out and our stories just end?

More than a few occasions in 2012 found me devolving into a non-violent, slow-motion panic—mostly over my God and his perceived absence. Enough flummoxed descriptions of my mounting crisis of faith and someone finally put a name to it: the Dark Night of the Soul, a temporary spiritual crisis marked by doubts about the afterlife. Reportedly, Mother Theresa was a notable sufferer, having spent nearly 50 years of her life in this state. Though technically correct, nothing that lasts 50 years should get to call itself “temporary.”

For someone outside Christianity, a more accessible term may be existential crisis. Whatever you call it, I’m just glad it’s identifiable. If someone recognized it, then it wasn’t some new mystery disease with no treatment, no cure. Someone lived to tell the story.

“No sir, I don’t like it…”

I am going to tell you what I would like.

But first, I have to apprise you of a few things I don’t like:

Though I still attend periodically, I am no fan of the modern church. I’ve come to see it as a politically-driven system of control, run by flawed individuals who master the art of masking those flaws. It’s a well-meaning institution, but I’ve seen it do as much harm as good. For now, I’d rather do without it.

Though church provides great moral structures for families, it’s not been for me the Tussin-like cure-all as advertised. Where is God’s power? I see few of the promised financial breakthroughs for those who deserve or need it. I see women who are rabidly hungry to become wives despite dismally high divorce rates. I see a shortage of physical healings. I suspect the testimonies I’d like to hear may actually be outside the church walls.

I have mostly stopped reading the Bible. At the moment, I’m overwhelmed with my inability to grasp its intent. Some believe the Bible should be adjusted for modern culture. Others say our culture should adjust to reflect the Bible. Trouble follows when too-literal interpretations work to the detriment of those they’re supposed to help. The problem is exasperated by hair-splitting denominations who, though agreeing upon a Heaven, cannot seem to agree how to get there.

If it is indeed the inspired word of God, I suspect the Bible’s purity has been tainted by hands that have translated, interpreted, and possibly censored it over the years. God’s golden truth is probably hiding amongst the dross, but you’ll have to find it via trial-and-error. The thought of attempting this makes me tired.

I still believe there is a god—but only one of them (which may get me categorized as a pantheist). I touched on this when I blogged about agnosticism and apostasy, but what if someone never hears the name Jesus? Do they go to Hell just because our Christian missionaries failed to fill out their paperwork properly?

It’s all a mess. The foundations of the faith I grew up with are now fractured. I fear I could lose friends for voicing opinions that contradict that foundation. This blog could’ve been published weeks ago. I’ve been waffling the whole time.

“May I take your order please?”

Let me tell you what I would like.

I would like to be in my 50s or older, in a small or midsized church with a soft-spoken, but whip-smart, understanding wife with kind eyes. Maybe we have one, possibly two precocious children that I was either convinced to have or they just showed up after she and I got carried away one anniversary. I would like to run into someone who is approximately the age I am now, who has little to say, but much in mind.

I would like to hear their doubt-riddled, tentative voice carefully push across their tongue a question that tells me everything I need to know. I will understand who they are, how they feel, and where they are. When they ask me, I will run down the entire ugly list of things I don’t like. And then I’d like to tell them, “this was as dark as it ever got.”

Related articles

• Wings Up (epicdimension.wordpress.com)
• The Examined Life Is Worth Living (unshakablehope.wordpress.com)
• If, Then, But, and Other Things You Said (junkyardsalvation.com)
• Believe In A Mystery (junkyardsalvation.com)
• God and the Silent Treatment (junkyardsalvation.com)
• ‘Personal Salvation Testimony’ (jpfinn7.wordpress.com)
• Romanian Bible Meets Need for New Translations of Scripture (prweb.com)
• Damage Through The Haze (ephesians616.wordpress.com)

DISCLAIMER: I wrote this August 8, 2012, but decided to sit on it until now. In light of my friend Robin’s recent illness and passing, it carries extra significance.

Imagine someone you love—a mother, father, sibling, cousin, or close friend—unconscious and unresponsive. You don’t know what caused it and you don’t know how long it’s going to last. But the doctors say, “Keep talking to them, they can hear you. They may also respond to touch.” What would you do? How often would you visit? How long would you stay?

If it was someone I loved, I would become protective. I would be watching to make sure nurses and orderlies treated them right, kept them clean and comfortable. If it was my sister, I would sing our favorite songs to her. I would have DVDs of Good Times and The Jeffersons playing around the clock like she does most days.

If it was my mother, I would recite encouraging and empowering scriptures to her; she might respond to that. If it was my papa, I would massage his feet and make sure his toenails didn’t grow too long and uncomfortable. If it was me, I would want someone to touch me; hold my hand or stroke my forehead. For the love of God, make sure my lips aren’t chapped. I hate that.

And if it was your God, what would you do?

The answer to that question is what I’m going to have to do if I want to engage in worship right now. I posed a question in God and the Silent Treatment about what to do when it seems God won’t respond to you. I think this is my answer now.

God is not dead. But most days he appears to be sleeping soundly, deeply. I don’t know what brought it on or how long it’s going to last. But I love him. And we have a long-reaching history together. If he were laying unresponsive, I would need to activate the love I have and put it to work.

I would need to sing him his favorite songs. I would need to become protective and look after his body; make sure his body was tended to and not neglected. “Do you love me? Feed my sheep” (John 21:17). I would need to do the things that used to make him smile proudly over me, and then tell him about them. “If you love me, keep my commandments” (John 14:15).

I would go digging through my box of mementos to remember things he liked and do those things often. Who knows? One of those things might cause him to, as I squeeze his hand, squeeze mine back. He might make a sound or eke out a word. Something might stimulate him to open his eyes. Something might wake him to life. Return him to what I remember.

The last thing I would need to do is abandon him. I did enough of that before he fell asleep, disregarding him while he was active and moving around me. You wouldn’t abandon your mother, would you? Your father, sister, brother, cousin, or friend? In their non-responsive state, you wouldn’t give up on them and stop visiting. Any day could be the day they return to you.

And what if it was you, laying in a state of suspended rest, but still able to hear, able to feel? Still knowing and discerning? What if it was you? How would you want to be taken care of? “Ministered to?” Perhaps you ought to pay that forward now.

I met Robin No-Middle-Name Hill in 2002 through a mutual friend. She was something to behold: tall, svelte, and stately. A confident beauty. Her modelesque walk was a fluid dance of elongated, undulating curves. She kept a proud yet understated sensuality. Her brown skin, bright eyes, wide smile, and trademark honey-and-sunlight braids gave her a striking resemblance to my mother. She was warm, funny, snappy, flirty, and wise. I liked her instantly. I called her My Robin Bobbin. She called me Maaaahk.

She and I were among the nucleus of 12 who co-founded a church together. She was 40 then. Nothing about her indicated that she had recently recovered from two strokes. I was astounded. Her friends had already walked through the fire with her. I wanted to be that kind of friend. I promised myself that if anything ever happened to Robin, I would be by her side. I never told her this.

—

Last year, as she and I were headed to whoop it up at a Prince concert, she announced with a brave smile that doctors discovered the reason behind her debilitating headaches and seizures. Robin had a brain tumor. An immediate biopsy was scheduled, but a subsequent surgery to try and remove it would leave her with watery short-term memory, erasing the defining edges on the personality we loved so well.

With only a tenuous ability to keep a grip on where she was in time and space, Robin could no longer maintain the fearsome independence that marked her. The ability to work, drive, dress, and live as she was accustomed came to an abrupt, bewildering halt.

—

To provide care, her sister had to move her 2 hours out of town. We met only when she returned to L.A. for doctor’s visits. Robin and I planned to attend Sade’s Soldier of Love World Tour together before the diagnosis. I decided cancer wasn’t going to warp our plans, so we went to the Staples Center in October 2011. The show was amazing. She had a great time and told her sister all about the loud music and lights. She forgot it all a day or so later.

In January 2012, a friend and I took Robin to Disneyland. She was so excited! Again, we had a great time. We took our funny friend to her favorite place to eat overpriced food, ride rides, take pictures, and not worry about grown-up things. This too washed away from her memory in a few passes, like footprints on a shoreline.

In the physical realm, it was as if these things never happened. We could no longer bankroll a grand history together, as Robin’s mind could only afford single moments. But I hoped somewhere in a spirit place, she kept it all.

“Put it in your pocket,
Put it in your heart…
And if the world around you
Begins to crumble and fall…
Take my love with you.” —Bonnie Raitt

—

She was tellingly vacant the last time I visited her at home. She would gaze unaffectedly at the area where the television was, as if waiting for a bus. I would not again see even that much awareness in her eyes.

A week later, damage from a final series of seizures left her nonresponsive and virtually brain dead. She would rest under a heavy blanket of morphine for two days as friends and family filed through to kiss her sleepy face, pray, console each other, worship, and share funny anecdotes. Many, like me, drove an hour or more outside city limits, to present their love to her in person.

It seemed like our doting was in vain, but we watched her vital signs, noting every trend and change. Her heart rate and oxygen levels would strengthen and rise to defiant crests as visitors arrived. She seemed to let us know she was aware of our presence, and not quite as far removed as we thought.

I stayed with her for hours that now feel like minutes. And then I came back the next day and did it again. I wasn’t alone either. I didn’t feel the weight of long drives and tense waits. I wanted to make good on my unspoken promise. If her being could sense or feel anything, I wanted my love to be in her room within reach.

—

Wednesday, November 1, 2012, at 2:13am, I watched my friend Robin take her last breaths and ascend quietly from one world to the next. From our world to the best. I loved her. I miss her. But I hope she felt me there, and knew I was walking with her. All the way. Right to the end.

“We will be with you
When you’re leaving
We will be with you
When you go
We will be with you
And hold you till you’re quiet…

You will stay with us.”
—Gotye

“If you want my love, well, you’ve got to get closer to me
I don’t understand why we can’t get close enough.”
—Jars of Clay, “Closer”

Access denied

I met an interesting girl online recently. She was the holy trinity of smart, talented, and beautiful. But, to my chagrin, she was very furtive and dodgy. If she was playing coy, she was playing to win. My curiosity was piqued because she kept her thoughts and feelings so hidden. Typical of me, I’m always fascinated by what I cannot understand.

I decided I wanted to get to know her better, but that wasn’t happening fast enough. So I worked up my nerve and expressed interest directly. The response I received was dusted with sugar. I imagine she giggled and shrugged her shoulders as she essentially told me, “you know enough about me already!” Fierfek.

The response landed like a playful punch on the chin, with the indication that a less-playful punch could follow if I didn’t pick up the first hint. Access firmly denied. She has decided to remain mysterious and aloof, the way she wants to be.

My ego was chapped over her polite refusal. But before I could get about the business of licking my wounds, I had déjà vu. The way I felt about her is the same way I feel about God. Well hot damn. Look at that.

Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin

The parallel is that I’ve constantly flung my whole self against the front doors of God and his mystery hoping one day he’ll relent and let me in. I ask him why things are the way they are; no response. (That’s code for “none of your business.”) I ask him when things will happen; he continues moving about the house doing his chores as if he didn’t hear me. I ask how to go about things; he says, “trust me.”

“As the heavens are higher than the earth,
so are my ways higher than your ways
and my thoughts than your thoughts.”

—Isaiah 55:9 (NIV)

He’s so guarded about his thoughts and feelings. I can’t stand it. God frustrates me and I’m angry with him. But I can’t stop talking about Him, and I can’t just leave him alone. (Raise your hand if you’ve ever been in a relationship like this.) I thought desiring to know more about God was a good and welcomed—even encouraged—thing. Perhaps I thought wrong.

Once I do understand things, I typically lose interest in them and my attention shifts to some other novelty or enigma that arouses curiosity. Maybe that’s why God won’t let me “know” him. He must know that if I truly figure him out, I’ll be out the door and on to something else. If I’m driven insatiably to find out the why behind things I don’t understand, maybe the best thing for me is that I never do. After all, the chase is often more exciting than the capture.

Huff and puff

There are pros and cons to getting the answers I sleuth so hard for. The pro is that if you give me what I want, I will let you get some sleep. If I was God, I would be tired of hearing the same prayers and insistent pleadings over and over again, ad nauseum. Those pastors and worship leaders and devotees who always seem to have the inside track on God’s every move and shift could get a break from my probing them about what they know. My curiosity would be sated and I could stop acting like supernatural paparazzi trying to uncover what God’s getting us for Christmas and break the story before December 25th.

The con is that familiarity breeds contempt. Michael Jackson was more fascinating in the 80′s when regular paparazzi weren’t transmitting every detail about his plastic surgeries, his vitiligo, his bizarre, sprawling Neverland ranch, his prepubescent company kept, and the like. There was a sacredness and magic to him back when more details of his life were kept hidden from us. I believe that shroud of mystery was a key ingredient to his magic and allure. It was as if he would be profaned and diminished if he wasn’t kept a distance away from the rest of the world.

Stand in the place where you live

Although the Bible says “So I say to you, ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives, and he who seeks finds, and to him who knocks it will be opened.” (Luke 11:9-10) …I have grown weary of trying to pull back the veil on God’s mystery. I’m tired of polite punches on the chin and licking my wounds. I’m tired of trying to understand why I’m denied access to what I desire.

Maybe the velvet rope between me and God’s locked-away thoughts is to protect me. Maybe I wouldn’t like him so much if I knew. Maybe I can’t handle it. Maybe it really isn’t any of my business and it behooves us both for him to remain aloof and beautiful and untouchable.

That’s really quite fine. But I’ve extended my hand in friendship. So now, I’m just going to stand here. And I’m going to wait. He knows where I live, the phone works both ways, and I check my e-mail often. If there’s any change of heart, he knows where to find me. If there’s anything he wants me to know, I’m confident he can get the message to me.

Related articles

• God and the Silent Treatment(junkyardsalvation.com)
• By Your Side: A Devotional(junkyardsalvation.com)
• If, Then, But, and Other Things You Said(junkyardsalvation.com)
• Smart People Problems(junkyardsalvation.com)
• Why I Believe in God (junkyardsalvation.com)

During one of my weekly crisis phone calls, one of my friends suggested I pray the Lord’s Prayer. She emphasized the “your will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven” part explaining that I would be inviting in God’s perfect will for my life. Wait. Whose perfect will? Not mine? Are you sure it’s perfect? (This has been a point of contention in the past.)

I used to be afraid to pray the blank check prayer. “Lord, I will do anything you want. Have your way with me.” I just knew God would send me to Africa to be a missionary to poor children. Black and proud as I am, I have never wanted to go to Africa. My motherland is California. And missions do not turn me on at all. I’m also not a fan of poverty. Or children.

God forbid all four get stirred together and poured over ice. That’s a bitter, bitter tea.

“…What man is there among you who, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will he give him a serpent? If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask Him!” —Matthew 7:9-11a (NKJV)

When this scripture finally came alive to me, I understood something important. Never mind the people who have represented him badly. God isn’t out to get me. He doesn’t spend hours a day on Google looking for ways to make me miserable. He doesn’t resent my first world lifestyle and His heart’s desire is not to find a torturous way to teach me a lesson.

And what business do I have writing a faith-themed blog when I’m not sure how much of it I believe anymore?

Admittedly, I have lost faith in an alarming and worrisome number of things about Christianity. But I haven’t lost faith in the view that God isn’t out to get me. The idea of praying “Thy will be done” doesn’t bother me so much. I also don’t know what the hell I want anyway. (Don’t take me to task on that. I’m not ready and it’s rude to ambush people.)

So I might as well defer to God, who is currently the most magnanimous benefactor I know, since Oprah forgot how to return my calls. Admitting this gave me a strange feeling. It was as if suddenly, everything wasn’t falling apart anymore. Not all of it at least. It felt like Jesus stretched up from his groggy nap on the back of the boat to flip the off-switch on my storm. Peace. Be still.

“It’s hard to recall what blew out the flame
It’s been dark here since you can remember
You talk it all through to find it a name
As days go on by without number

You’ve been here for a long, long time

Hope has a way of turning its face to you
Just when you least expect it
You walk in a room
You look out a window
And something there leaves you breathless
You say to yourself
It’s been a while since I felt this
But it feels like it might be hope.”
—Sara Groves, “It Might Be Hope”

The Bible documents well the story of Jesus’ birth, some scant details about him as a pre-teen, and multiple accounts of the last years of his life. But I’ve always wondered about the little details of Jesus’ life that didn’t make it into the Bible.

Sight

I don’t much care whether Jesus was the long-haired white guy seen in most photos. What he did overshadows how he may have looked. But I have this fantasy that whatever Jesus’ physical appearance was when he walked the Earth looked like the facial average of every person who has lived or will ever.

That way Jesus wouldn’t represent any one race or bloodline and no one gets to claim superiority. He would just look like a cross between my face and yours… and your boss’s… and every other face. If we looked at him, we would just instinctively understand that he is connected to us and we him, making us all connected to each other.

Sound

For the last 3 years, I’ve wondered the strangest thing. Do you think Jesus enjoys Michael Jackson’s music as much as I do? Just like Hebrews 4:15 (NKJV) says “we do not have a High Priest who cannot sympathize with our weaknesses,” I imagine that Jesus is able to share in our joys. I don’t know about your tastes, but when “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough” comes on and I hear that first ecstatic “you make me feel like… WHOO!” I just get happy. Who doesn’t? Somehow, I think if Jesus walked the Earth today and that song came on at the family reunion, he might just come do the Electric Slide with us.

Sex

Because sex is viewed as dirty, it may offend some to wonder about Jesus’ relationship with it. But he was fully God and fully human. I doubt he was excused from puberty. I wonder how he, in his divinity, navigated the desire to procreate. I never went for Bible scholars using Onan as a justification for why masturbation is wrong. I’d just like to know how Jesus dealt with morning wood as a teenager. That’s all I’ll say on the subject.

Science

“Now when all things are made subject to Him, then the Son Himself will also be subject to Him who put all things under Him, that God may be all in all.” —1 Corinthians 15:28

I’ll admit I really have no idea what 1 Corinthians 15:28 means in context. But for a long time, I’ve had this idea that God being “all in all” is very literal. What if God is everything and is also hidden inside everything? What if He physically dwells in every invisible, immeasurable, and infinitesimal space? In between the quarks… that make up the protons… that make up the atoms… that make up everything, everyone, everywhere.

What if he smirks at us trying to figure him out. What if every current in the ocean is a thought about the plans he has for us? What if everything we can see and can’t; all that is, was, and will be; and every possibility that never was… are each just little pieces that comprise God’s unfathomable grandeur?

Spacetime

And the Lord said, “Indeed the people are one and they all have one language, and this is what they begin to do; now nothing that they propose to do will be withheld from them. ⁷ Come, let Us go down and there confuse their language, that they may not understand one another’s speech.” ⁸ So the Lord scattered them abroad from there over the face of all the earth, and they ceased building the city.

—Genesis 11:6-8

Another totally unfounded belief I have: Just like God scattered and confounded the speech of the people building the Tower of Babel, I think it would be only fitting if at the very moment before man discovers time travel and how to navigate the 4th dimension, Jesus breaks through the clouds chuckling “Ha! Too late! I win! Good try though, guys. Bring it in. Game’s over.”

Subconscious

There’s a belief out there that we only use 10% of our brains and our subconscious remains largely untapped. I’ve often imagined that the remaining 90% is where God hides. When God says we are his temple, maybe that 90% is the main tabernacle, a spiritual Wi-Fi network where we can access the Divine as well as each other, even if we’re not touching. Maybe that’s how prayer works.

Do you have any random, silly, thoughtful, insightful “wonder ifs” about Jesus? Leave a comment below! Maybe someone on the internet is thinking the same thing you are.

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Whenever I visit my hometown, my mother does not let me leave until she prays for me. It’s always been that way since the mid-80s when she got good and saved. That means whether dropping me off at elementary school or releasing me to the freeways so I could get back home to Los Angeles, it’s still the same thing. I would have to pad my travel time by about 5 or 10 minutes for Mom.

There is a very singular way her hand shakes when Mom prays for me. It’s not violent, or over the top. It’s just the slightest bit stronger than the magnitude felt when you lean against the dryer on its final spin cycle. It’s actually kind of relaxing. In any case, I can see it coming on as she reaches up to place her hand on my forehead.

If I didn’t know her well, I might think it was a put-on to dramatize the prayer. That’s no act. It’s been consistent throughout, which gives it credence. Fakeries reveal themselves over time.

These days, I moonlight as a skeptic. But I wonder about that. There must be something real to it. And I wonder what it is.

It wouldn’t stand up in court. It would be useless to convince you or anyone else of God’s existence. But it means something to me. It’s a fingerprint, a personality tic, a signature, an inside joke—something only God and I would know. An unmistakable wink and a smile. It’s his way of telling me, nonverbally, “I’m still here.”

—

I visited an all-worship service at a new church. The music was beautiful. It nudged me to sing along and around the music like a kid in a playground. I bowed in reverence. Then I got a little bit free. And then I stood up in reverence. And then a little more free and I started to shift my weight like a car trying to rock itself out of a ditch. And then I had to move around. At first in small roundish circuits, and then in a wider linear path as if to trudge out a solution to the U.S. budget crisis. Pacing. Again.

I remember this. I pace when I pray. It’s not something that I try to do. It’s not something that does anything particular for me. It’s just something that seems to come over me. You might easily explain the occurrence away, but not so much the experience. Something about it is real to me.

I’m not fooling myself or anyone around me. To me, this is admissible evidence that there is a God who mysteriously moves and sluices around us quietly and with intent. His plans are rarely ever unobscured to me, but all I need is a little confirmation now and then and it’s enough to poke holes in my most securely reasonable doubts. The shakes. A pace. It’s significant, because the little things always come from something big.