Redemption...and Aristotle

Today was supposed to be a homework day. It would seem that God had other plans. Turns out I’m fasting and a lot more is going on that I can really wrap my soul around right now. But I’ll write about what I do know….

This morning I was kind of bemoaning the fact that I have been so unprepared for Easter tomorrow. Like, tomorrow is supposed to be a recognition of the most important moment in my faith’s history, I’ve felt that I’ve done nothing about that, or so I thought. Unbeknownst to me, God’s been preparing me for Easter without me realizing. So, caveat: this may all sound like a rambling mess, and I’ve kind of been avoiding this all day—but I feel I’m supposed to write so I am.

A lot has surfaced in the last week. Two weeks ago I found out I was accepted for an internship I’ve been wanting since last summer. It’s in Rome, Italy. It’s an organization that does exactly the type of law—and so far the only type of law—that interests me. I didn’t even know a place like this existed till last summer, when I visited it with a class on my study abroad program. Now I’m going to get my feet wet in the field and work there this summer. On one hand, I am beyond excited.

But here’s the thing: I’ve had some major anxiety over it. Not that I’m scared to go, but that it won’t happen. From my perspective, the days tick by and my questions regarding visa acquisition go by unanswered and I don’t know how I’m going to pay for everything. And all the logistics are stacking up and in the back of my mind I’m sure this opportunity is going to be ripped out from underneath me. Somewhere in the back of my soul I’m bracing for disappointment—no, devestation—and I’m just sure their never going to get back to me and this is never actually going to happen. There. I said it.

On surface level, It sounds stupid. I’m fully aware that my life is not over if I don’t go “summer in Italy” (for the second time in a row). But actually, actually, turns out, this whole thing goes a lot deeper for me. This isn’t about Italy, it’s about a lot more. And I think I wasn’t honest with myself about just how much more until this week.

First, and most superficially, I’ve already gone through all of this bureaucracy stuff with France before. It was not a wonderful experience and I think those memories are contributing to my worry over things. I’m supposed to be there in 2 months and I haven’t gotten moving on anything. I’m waiting for more information that the organization said they’d send me “shortly.”

I’m in a waiting pattern, checking my email obsessively hoping that Rome will send me the information they promised relating to my grant and visa applications for this summer. So far, nothing…it’s been a week and a half. Meh, I know it’s Italy, and they are no where near and impatient as I am to get things settled, but my head and my emotions aren’t really speaking terms right now.

So, that’s part of it, and then there’s this: last summer, in Italy, I was supposed to talk to a friend about something. I’ve never really had anything like it happen to me before. I had the strongest push I’ve ever felt in my life to go talk to this person and tell them something. I was supposed to tell them, basically, that God wanted them to become what they were created to be, to somehow breathe life into this particular person’s story and remind them that they are who they are for a reason and to run with it. This “message” was nothing new, I didn’t make it up—even though I keep replaying the events over and over in my head trying to remember just why I thought this was a good idea (like I said, head and emotions not on speaking terms)—it was straight out of Scripture.

But what happened after this conversation has sincerely affected me. I will not rehash the details of it, but here’s a part of the story that I didn’t see coming: the message was for me too. Since this conversation happened, I have been wanting to understand why I had such an incredible burden for this person, for this thing, and I couldn’t come to terms with any reason except that maybe it was because it was indeed a message with which I powerfully resonated. This rationale is true, but all of this time I’ve thought this message was something I already understood. And maybe I did. But if so, I’ve only understood it logically, not emotionally.

In the last week I’ve been extremely humbled to come face to face with my lack of faith in what God has begun to give me. As I mentioned before, it would seem that Italy this summer is not about Italy, it’s about a lot more.

A LOT more.

I’m 32 years old. I majored in French—who does that? For 17 years now I’ve wondered why that amazing language is such a huge part of my life, as I majored in it based on clear direction from my Father. Since college, I’ve lived in 4 different states, 2 different countries (3 if you count my stints in Italy), worked 20 some jobs in these places and then decided it would be fun to go back to law school at THIRTY (that last phrase should be read with a great measure of sarcasm).

I’ve followed Him all over the globe and now into law school (one of the least favorite things I’ve ever done). I am at a point in my life where I am at an ultimate low of spiritually tired and not understanding what God is doing with my life.

I have now spoken into so many people’s lives and encouraged them to not sell out, to not give up on God’s “best” and to remember that faith is hard…blah, blah, blah. And then last summer I had the specific directive to walk into somebody’s life and tell them that God wanted more for them, speaking a powerful message that I now cannot ignore.

I have so many areas of my life and story that I love. God has been undeniably good and faithful to me. I cannot deny His hand on my life nor His provision. But if I’m honest with myself, right now I feel that if my life were literature, then I feel more like a compilation of poignant short stories than I do a novel, or any coherent narrative. If I were art, I would say I feel more like a collage that makes sense only to the artist and no one else than any scene or sculpture that tells a story.

Here I am, though. I can be what I am, I can tell my short stories and I can explain to you each piece of my collage and what my Author, my Artist did in each piece of me, which blesses me beyond measure—but I could never recount to you an overarching theme because I don’t know. And it’s exhausting.

Now, first let me say, I understand 3 things. First, I am not missing the fact that the “overarching theme” of most gravitas in my life is the Father himself, and I understand the value in a piece of literature or art that moves one to know the author or artist himself to understand the depth and nature of his product. For these things I am immeasurably grateful.

Second, I get that this lack of understanding is not without purpose. I get that faith journey is nothing if not process. But I also have the distinct conviction that it can be debilitating cop-out to stop at “things don’t have to make sense,” or that “God’s about the process and not the arrival” or “don’t worry about the outcome, just live today well” and not have the courage to wonder where your struggles and story fit into the Kingdom on a larger scale. Don’t get me wrong, I believe all of those statements, in context. But I believe these maxims can be used as excuses to not search for deeper meaning in life and even in faith.

That said, if I also believe that God places desires in me that He wants so desperately to fulfill, then I have to believe that this one strong strain of desire that has run through my entire life is actually there not to be disappointed, but rather fulfilled: someday I want to see how all these things He and I have been through together do tell a bigger story and that He was preparing me for an eventual purpose. I guess I want to have some semblance of an Esther moment someday, a small-scale “for such a time as this” moment. Again: there. I said it. I’ve always wanted that.

Third, I also get that if any desire is God-given, it’s fulfillment is going to happen in His time and not mine, and I think that’s the crux of this summer for me.

Next, some background:

·      I was homeschooled and grew up always feeling like a social outlier.

·      All my life I’ve had an insatiable desire to know and understand the world around me, and the more I see the more it grows. I’m therefore fascinated by all things international.

·      These two things combined, I’m often more comfortable overseas than I am in my own culture: at least it’s expected that I be a social outlier, and I’m ALWAYS learning.

·      I speak French and I didn’t like living in France. I’ve beat myself up over this, wondering if I’ve missed God’s calling on me.

·      I’ve had a relationship with Italy since I was 18 years old. I’ve been in love with her ever since—and this fact has never made sense to me.

·      I’ve therefore always preferred Italy over France. (Actually, I only speak French because I wanted to learn Italian and it wasn’t offered, so I took French instead.)

·      I thought I was going to be a teacher. I was for a while, and came back so drained from teaching in France that I didn’t want to see another classroom forever.

·      The only other thing I ever thought I’d want to do is be a lawyer.

·      I came to law school on clear direction and a full scholarship and fully expected this to at least begin to answer some of my deeper questions regarding my calling and direction. Instead, it’s been confusing as far as direction goes and I’ve largely sucked at law school. Also, I kind of hate it—at least most of it. The only part of it that gets me fired up is the international law part. Surprise, surprise.

·      I often don’t feel American. Again, I just said it. I know I’m a product of my culture more than I realize, but I often just feel like I don’t belong in my own country.

·      I’m in law school but I love literature, art, and would probably love to live in a museum. Or library. (Probably the latter.) I’m a freaking poet, not an attorney. What am I doing here?

·      But almost as strong as my love for these things is my sense of injustice and desire to see this world become a better place. A desire, if you will, to see His Kingdom Come and His Will Be Done….I keep coming irrevocably back to that, for really, I believe this is the very heart of Jesus.

·      All of this is how I ended up in…Minnesota. All-American, Midwest Minnesota. Again, fish out of water.

So that’s some background as to how an artist’s soul ended up getting stuck in the cogs of the machine of legal education. I can see how I got here, and like I said, I see God’s hand on every moment of it. However, it’s the trajectory that I don’t understand. And I refuse to believe that God doesn’t want me to understand how my life and what I do has meaning. I do believe that, day to day, He wants me to just trust and not have to see the big picture always or especially exclusively. I do believe that. But I also believe that someday, I’m going to get a glimpse of some larger scale design, and I want it so badly I can taste it.

And I think, as best as I can tell, that’s what my anxiety over Italy is about. If this works out, for the first time in my life all of this will start to make sense. Start is the operative word here, sure, but it is worth so much to this soul right now.

This organization where I’m supposed to intern does amazing work. They help develop legal systems, environmental practices, access to justice programs, and many other things in countries all over the world into which they are invited. This is so me. Finally!

Then, randomly, this organization happens to be in Italy. I would want to work in an organization like this even if it weren’t, so this part just blows my mind.

The official languages of the organization are English and...French?! I did not realize this till last summer, but French is the other main language of international law. Again, mind blown.

So like I said, this all may just be incoherent rambling, but if the reader (if you even exist) is still with me, then this is at last the crux of the issue. One of my deepest desires is to know and understand my life’s purpose, and with that comes a tantamount desire to feel profoundly called to what I do.

So what does this have to do with Easter? In a word, Redemption. Stay with me here.

I think that we as Christians often do this word an injustice on Easter day, because redemption isn’t a moment, it’s a process. Justification, sure, is a moment—a beautiful one. But redemption is a lifetime of astounding, breath-taking (sometimes literally), gut-wrenching, worth-it, toil. And it does begin in a moment: in a word, Easter. Easter is the celebration of the fact that Redemption can happen now because Jesus paved the way for it. This thing He did laid the groundwork for Redemption, and that’s what I celebrate tomorrow.

So, if Redemption isn’t always equal to justification, what exactly is being redeemed? OUR PURPOSE! I believe that life is supposed to actually about getting back to “the Garden,” if you will. In Genesis we read the story, both within the lines and in between them, of how God walked with us, did daily life with us and was involved in everything. There was no compartmentalizing Him out of things, as there was no need nor desire to. At least, that’s what I see in the Creation story. And then that got broken, which brokenness had farther reaching consequences that the beginning of humanity could have ever contemplated. But what this story tells us is that in our very DNA we are designed for that original relationship, which is what Jesus, Easter, once again made possible.

Aristotle believed in the idea of teleology. I tend to think that he was on to something. I think he nailed a principle that we were created with—I just don’t think that it actually happens perfectly and naturally in our broken version of things. But I think that’s what Redemption truly is—it sets back on the road to telos.*  And another beautiful thing about it is that it looks so different for everybody!

And that’s what He’s doing in me. That’s Redemption.

So, as I’m realizing that my struggle this week hasn’t been about Italy itself at all, I’m realizing how this whole situation is bringing to surface my faith in my whole philosophy and idea of who God is and what He wants for me. No wonder I’m not okay. This internship situation has me truly asking myself if I really believe God is who I have told others He is. Ironically, the very message I felt I was supposed to go deliver in Italy last summer has been driven home so deeply into my own heart that God is very likely doing a deeper work in me than in the original recipient.

I should have known. I thought that whole thing wasn’t about me but it turns out it, uh, was. I also realize that if Italy doesn’t happen this summer, my whole philosophy doesn’t have to fall apart. I do believe that someday I will get a glimpse of the story He’s writing in and through me. I also believe I’ll never understand the entirety of the narrative on this side of things. But I do think that it’s okay for me to want to understand more and it’s okay for me to see how this internship this summer begins to answer 32 years worth of questions in some profound and unique ways.

Anyway, all of this brings me to this resolution: I will choose to believe in my spiritual teleology even if its realization doesn’t happen when or how I want it to. And that’s a head choice. So often the platitude is pronounced, “love is a choice not a feeling. While I think that’s often true, in my experience it’s often true of faith as well, and I’m going to live in that right now. Sometimes, frankly, faith is just raw choice and the heart eventually follows.

Years ago I was choosing a name for this blog. The phrase “logical folly” came to me, randomly. I had no idea how those words would illuminate and speak over my spiritual process and life. I’m choosing faith in Redemption this day and celebrating tomorrow that it’s possible. My heart will follow.

It always does. Thank God.

So much for homework today. And another side note too: I’m grateful for fasting. I’m grateful for a way in which my body can physically express what my soul feels: “God, I’m hungry for You, Your Word in my life, and I need to be sustained, fill me.”

Lastly, I have a weird feeling something’s happening in Italy this weekend. Like, God’s moving. I have no idea what that means but, dear God, we need it. Move on.

And thank You for Easter.

*(Full disclosure: to my understanding, Aristotle mostly focused on observing the principle of teleology in the what he called the natural, or material world. Here I am applying the principle beyond that limited context.)

Studio Dialogue 6

The paint on her canvas had begun to weigh on her. She could feel it. To her, the process seemed to drag on and she didn’t understand. She struggled, knowing that tension between her level of involvement in her own process and letting the Master paint was difficult but necessary if she truly wanted to become the Masterpiece that was, supposedly, underway.

This constant tension, though, was hard to bear. Sometimes she felt that her canvas had begun to stretch and this tension that was supposed hold her canvas taught so the Master could work had begun to wane and, God forbid, maybe her canvas had begun to sag, just a little. Sometimes the paint didn’t feel beautiful, it just felt heavy.

In a moment though, He uttered her Name. Though she could only feel and not see it, whenever her name was uttered she could feel a surge of life reverberate through her colors. And for a moment they felt lighter….Sometimes she wondered what it looked like to the Master Painter.

“What is it?” He asked.

She knew that so often she was the one to begin the conversations; this time was different. Maybe He could see her fatigue, she thought. Of course He can, she told herself. He knows the answer, but maybe I don’t…it wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe I just need to try.

But I don’t know how.

Usually it was the Master to linger in pause. But this time, instead of just talking she all but let out a sigh and just thought for a while. What really is going on with me? She mused, almost scared to dive too deep.

“Art is hard, Master.” She finally stated, not dismissively but also not knowing where to start.

He didn’t smile, which surprised her a little. He nodded, and his brow furrowed just a bit, enough where she could see a flash of pain across his countenance—and then He took a deep breath.

“Yeah.”

“If it’s hard, why do You do it?” She dug a little deeper.

As she asked that, she watched his brow unfurrow and an expression she’d never seen before wash over not just His face, but his entire demeanor. It was peaceful, not angry, and it seemed like a subject He was happy to talk about. He sat back on his creaky stool and responded:

“Because it’s worth it.”

“How?”

He nodded, as if to say that He had actually wanted that question to follow. He slowly swiveled around on his stool to look at another painting in the Studio and asked,

“Do you remember talking about my Son’s portrait?”

“Of course.” She said, and when He didn’t continue right away she wondered if she had missed the point. But then He did continue after all.

“I told you that He is the image of Me, and that in the same way that He does in his portrait, I wish for you to emulate the image of My character.”

“Yes, I remember that conversation.” She said, still wondering if she was missing something.

“Nothing was more difficult than that Portrait, my love, because another way of putting it is basically this: that painting is a Self-Portrait.”

 “But…”

“Yes…” He cut her off, nodding even more, and still gazing at the radiant, perfect Work of Art in question while explaining,

“…Yes, it is my Son. But my Son is the image of Me. And to be honest, the way that this works is for another conversation. But my point is that no Portrait has ever been a more difficult process. An Artist is no true artist who doesn’t undergo a process themselves in the production of art, and the process I underwent in the Creation of my own Self-Portrait--in my Son--was the most difficult of all.”

“So…”

“Yes…” He beat her to her question again. “Yes, but it was worth it.”

“But…how?!” She managed, not absolutely certain she was missing the carefully crafted message of her Artist.

He turned back around on his stool. She now looked at Him and the Painting behind Him, simultaneously appreciating all of it but also cognizant of the fact that she couldn’t fully comprehend it either. She watched as He gazed thoughtfully at His hands. She noticed again His scars, the ones she often forgot about but somehow managed to grow, strangely, more beautiful every time she actually took a moment to look at them. This phenomenon was just yet another thing about her Master that she didn’t fully grasp. But first things first, she thought. She was still tired, and unusually quiet in this dialogue. She knew the Master had heard her question, and she also knew that His cadence was very different than hers. He would respond in time.

He spoke quietly, and in His voice she heard the pain she’d seen on His face before. But it was an “in the past” sort of pain—somehow—and she heard something else too on top of that pain, but couldn’t quite pinpoint it. She just listened.

“It was at the height of that process that my hands began to bleed. The process of that painting called for Blood, My Blood, for the consummation and realization of the Masterpiece.”

He paused here, and moved in closer to her, his face so closely examining her canvas. She felt in that moment that every last flaw of her canvas must have been under the strict scrutiny of His all-seeing eye, when then He spoke again.

“And then that Blood, once spilled, could clean any canvas that wanted it, that believed in it. That wanted to become a Masterpiece. Redemption, you could call it. And that’s what happened to you. So that process, though brutal and more difficult than any other, was a gateway for Masterpiece after Masterpiece…including your own. So, yes. Yes, it was worth it. You’re worth it.”

At these words, she felt small. Not because she didn’t believe them but because she suddenly realized that what she felt to be extra weight on her canvas could never compare to the process her Artist had just described. Maybe, she thought, she had just needed a little perspective.

“But that’s not where you were going with all of that, was it, my love?” He smiled at her. He knew her indeed.

“No, it’s not. But it I needed to hear it, I think…I mean, I know. I’m going to have to think about all of that.”

This time He sat, painting, waiting for her to expound. And when she was ready, she did.

“Okay, so here it is. I’m tired. I know that’s selfish and so small of me, but Master, I can’t see what You do. I just keeping sitting here, getting worked on and none of it seems to make sense. I mean, you work on one corner for a while and layer after layer happens and I get comfortable and start seeing an image there and then you move to a different spot! So I have all of these areas that You’ve worked on all over my canvas and they don’t seem to be coherent! It feels like I’m a collage rather than Image that is to somehow resemble You someday! And then it just gets heavy. And then some of these corners, these little images you make I really like—and when you’re working on one of them I begin to wonder if you’ve started working on the “bigger picture” of me –like maybe that’s the direction this picture of me is going and it never is so far.  I just don’t understand, Master. What are you doing?”

She had to stop for breath. Something had just been released in her and she almost surprised herself with her own honesty.

“Is all of me ever going to make sense?”

She uttered this last part almost under her breath. But the Painter never missed a word. He let her calm down for a moment, letting her know that He fully appreciated her struggle before He spoke to it.

“Darling, Art never seems logical to the piece of art. Indeed, it may often not look logical even to some onlookers. But the Artist always knows. And you can’t have Masterpiece without the process. And, again, that process will only make sense to the One who knows his Artistry. I know. And Darling, I know you know that, but I also need you to know that there is a method to the process I’ve chosen, and if you continue to let that method be worked out on you the result will not only be good, it will be optimal. My love, don’t forget that your painting tells a story. You are an image, yes, but your image tells a story. And what seems to be fragments of a narrative splattered all over your surface right now, will eventually intertwine and weave together in a way you can’t contemplate right now. Yes, there are gaps for now. And yes, some things may not make sense for a while, but I promise you that I know what I’m doing. No stroke is an accident, though folly it may sometimes seem.”

She nearly flinched at the statement that “no stroke is an accident,” and was reminded of her canvas’ loosening tension again as a result.

“Master?” She asked, not wanting to forget what He had just said.

“Yes, my love?”

“I hear You. And I hear what You’re saying. I can see that for You, this is Perfect and Logical, while for me—and for anyone who’s watching, I suppose—this all looks like folly. But, I trust You.”

He smiled as she went on:

“I mean, I’ve seen your Work and I really do, I trust You. But I really do feel like this is a heavy part of your Method right now. Can You tighten me up?”

“Of course! I’m so glad you asked me to, my love! It may hurt for a moment, but it will pass. You’re right that you need it. And I will absolutely affirm that right now things are hard.”

He reached for the tools to stretch her little canvas taught, and added:

“But what will it be?”

She nodded. Worth it, she knew. She didn’t need to say it.