Exploring the Well

Wandering the savage garden...

Don’t Observe: Participate.

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I struggle with passivity.

I’m a classic INTJ, in terms of Myers-Briggs typology, which usually means that I watch and plan until I’m needed. As an example, I might notice the dishes need washing, but there are four other people in my home, all of whom are capable of doing the dishes; I’ll watch the dishes go undone until I decide that nobody else will do them. Then they’ll get washed. (I have to confess: I don’t like washing dishes, but I absolutely despise drying them, and have to force myself to dry them.)

Even though this is a fairly core aspect of my personality, I find that I don’t like it at all. I heard from my church’s women’s minister that she doesn’t like “New Year’s Resolutions,” she prefers an adjustment of priorities – which makes a lot of sense to me – and if I had one this year, it would be a priority on action rather than on observation.

That means that if the dishes are dirty, do them. No pile-up of dishes, ever. If I’m there, they’re done, no matter who else might do them; if someone else won’t pick up the mantle, I will.

On Facebook this morning, I saw a friend post a link to this, with the comment that the moron on Christ’s side didn’t know his theology well enough to defend it:

It’s funny, but it got me thinking.

For one thing, the Christian in the image apparently did not know his theology well enough to understand the actual machinery of God – which is indeed something of which we are all a part.

For another, I’m not sure my friend knew the theology himself – he pointed out that “God helps those who help themselves,” which isn’t actually a biblical statement at all. He went hunting through Paul and the Beatitudes looking for some equivalent.

For a third thing, it got me wondering about the nature of passivity. The most offensive thing – if offense is the right term to use – about the exchange was that my friend was fairly passive about the link in the first place. “Ha, ha,” he said, indicating the humor… and that was it.

I found myself infuriated. Not at the ignorance; that’s just this thing, you know? It’s a state of being. It happens.

What infuriated me was the passivity on everyone’s part. An assertion is being made, someone knows it’s ridiculous, but lets it lie.

Nope.

What I would have liked to have seen is for someone to listen to the voice of God in their head, saying “This isn’t correct,” and then that someone acts on it… by trying to gently correct the ignorance in God’s Name.

I know that I struggle with the “gently” aspect there; I’m far more likely to go in with a bat, breaking things in the name of accuracy, which isn’t really any better than letting ignorance lie for most cases, so I have to be really careful not to cause harm in the interest of trying to advance God’s cause.

(“No, you idiot!” is not a good leading statement.)

But at the same time, I have to find ways to share learning and knowledge in such a way that everyone grows and no-one is harmed… because being passive is harmful. Observation is the beginning of action, but observation without following through is wrong.

Shalom.

Credit

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I don’t know how to handle my own struggle with selfishness. In fact, I struggle to the point where I wonder if it’s even selfishness at all – but more a recognition of my own needs.

I used to play in church bands, usually as a backup (because playing in the band is a job, and I wanted to go to church with my family, instead.) I stopped for a few reasons, but one of the strongest reasons was that I, as a band member – even a backup – was not getting fed at church. I was serving, but not being served.

And there’s the illustration in a nutshell, really: “What about me?” I was not being served – and that sounds incredibly selfish.

But is it? If I were somehow to feed the world, but starve myself, what have I done? Eventually I’ll starve to the degree that I’m no longer feeding the world, and everyone starves with me.

To be sure, I wasn’t wanting to be “fed” at church by adulation; I definitely didn’t want members to point me out and say “what a star!” or whatever. What I wanted was to be part of the church, just a guy who played guitar or drums. I wanted – and needed, really – some effort to be put into normalizing my relationship, and I never really felt anything but the isolation that comes with being part of the band.

I’m sure that part of it is my own fault; I don’t think anyone set out to isolate the band. Some band members were definitely “included” in the way that I would have liked to have been – and they put forth a lot of effort to be included, in general. (Some were naturally engaged; I am most certainly not built like that.)

But while I think some of it is my own fault, I don’t think I can legitimately claim all of the fault. If it had happened at one church, or two, I think I could point my finger at myself and testify of my own poor methods or motives.

However, it’s happened at every church I’ve been part of. I have never seen a band that wasn’t socially isolated from the body of the church. I have always felt “apart,” separated, alone… in the Body of Christ, while trying to serve it. And like I said, I’ve seen very few band members who escaped that isolation.

It goes farther than being in a band, though. In my personal life, I have to regularly confront that voice in my head that needs. I work hard, too – where is my credit for working hard?

The truth is, I’m exhausted – and I’m still going. I keep thinking that my exhaustion would be assuaged if someone would at least acknowledge the effort I expend every day, even if they don’t try to take up some of the burden themselves. When does that desire on my part go from a need to a sin?

I don’t know. I wish I did. My answer right now is to slam the door on that voice in my soul; I tell myself that it should be silenced, and I should live solely to serve, and when my cup is empty, I will have done enough.

Transformation

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I’ve needed reconstructive surgery for a long time. It’s nothing terminal, but it’s something visible. After decades of ignoring the need for reconstruction, I finally talked to a surgeon about it, and I think I’ve decided to undergo one aspect of reconstruction while ignoring the rest of it.

I’d like to explain why, not because my decision is all that relevant to anyone else, but because the reasons behind it seemed to be rooted deeply in Judaism, and there’s a contrast with Christianity.

But first, let me reiterate: I’m not dying or anything. (Well, no more than any other living person is.) The problem doesn’t even have specific health risks with it; I asked the surgeon what the consequences would be if I did absolutely nothing, and he shrugged; my lifespan is not going to be affected by the reconstruction, whether it happens or not. I don’t need or want any prayers for healing.

The History

My reconstruction has been taking place since the day I was born. I’ve had a lot of surgery (more than thirty operations involving general anesthetics.) Today, the problem would be addressed easily and simply, within days – but when I was born, it was a serious question whether to abort, or abandon such children altogether. In Roman times, I’d have been sacrificed to the gods, or left to die on a hill if I’d made it to term at all.

After a while, I stabilized – my last major surgery would have been maybe when I was eight or nine years old. (Please forgive me – I was young and the dates didn’t matter to me then, and they don’t really matter now – I’m only trying to offer a narrative such that things make sense to others.)

The idea was that I was stable, and when I finished my primary growth – at fifteen or sixteen, maybe a bit earlier – I’d undergo another round of reconstruction and finish everything up, as well as fix a minor problem that was still unresolved.

That minor problem is still present today.

However… at around thirteen or so, I had a conversation with my stepfather about it. I don’t remember what started it, or why. I only remember that he did something that no-one else had ever done, and that in retrospect was incredibly cruel, even though I remain grateful in some really sardonic ways.

He said that I had a choice. I could proceed with reconstruction, and become something different, or I could choose to be who I was.

This was mind-blowing to me.

I grew up isolated from the people around me, always feeling different (and being different.) I was a Jew in a sea of Christians. I was surrounded by kids for whom the worst thing in life was that they’d have to wait until Christmas to get a new color television set, or maybe their motorcycle could use a new set of shocks. Meanwhile, I could look back on my friendships from before I was eight, and count on one hand the number of children who’d even survived to nine years old.

On the playground, kids would count the number of stitches they had – the winner in third grade had something like thirty. I didn’t play, because by then I’d had thousands of stitches. I had no idea how to relate the differences in scale. I understood that it was a big deal to them, but to me… how could I explain, at eight years old, what it was like? How could I become knowable to them?

What’s more, I was always changing. In elementary school, I had multiple surgeries that affected how I was able to interact with people; one, for example, prevented me from speaking for six weeks. How would elementary-aged kids be expected to know a kid with whom no real interaction is possible? Everything I did, I had to do alone. The other kids couldn’t learn to rely on my presence, because I was necessarily not present on occasion.

It’s not their fault, nor is it mine, but the truth is that they saw me as a variable, and not a necessary one like weather or traffic or anything like that.

So there I am at twelve or thirteen, and I’m given this idea of being knowable. Sure, I’d not be fully constructed, but I’d be knowable to myself and, as a new thing, to others. I’d be able to stop eating my mother’s time and energy, and she’d be able to actually focus on her own life and marriage. (I’m convinced that my issues contributed heavily to my parents’ divorce.) I’d be able to start living my own life, instead of waiting for all this surgery and recovery to finish.

Or I could keep enduring the constant struggle, keep consuming my mother’s life, keep trying to learn how to compensate for whatever physical challenges I had remaining, or how to adjust to not having a given challenge any more. (After not being able to speak for six weeks, I had to learn how to speak properly again. And it wasn’t the last time.)

I made the choice to try to become knowable.

Judaism

One of the crucial differences between Christianity and Judaism comes down to transformation.

Christianity relies on it – every Christian undergoes a redemptive, transformative moment from which they go from condemned to redeemed, lost in sin to saved by grace. “I once was lost, but now am found,” as “Amazing Grace” recounts, in a core narrative that should apply to every Christian.

Judaism, on the other hand, does not. Judaism has very few examples of transformation – the one undergoing the covenant moment is part of the narrative both before and after. Abram covenanted with God, and his name was changed to Abraham – but he was the same monotheist before and after. Moses encountered the burning bush, and was somewhat transformed, but his encounter exposed something in his being that was there all along. Elijah found the still, small voice of God – but was Elijah before and after.

Jacob, becoming Israel, is one of the few examples of a radical transformation preserved in Judaism.

Such transitions are hardly positive in Judaism. One can transition from kosher to tamei (“clean” to “unclean”) fairly easily, but to become clean is a much more difficult prospect. (God, represented by time, is usually the actor of such a transformation, if it’s possible at all.)

Now see Christ, who spent His ministry radically changing all of this. You see it in the Gospels over and over again: Christ encounters a need, and transforms the needy from a state of condemnation and uncleanness to salvation and purity, with authority.

My Decision

My choice to not undergo reconstruction in my youth was based on my exhaustion of constant change. I was (and still am, at my core) a Jew. I was ready to be a Jew, to be myself, rather than spend more time becoming the Jew I was supposed to be.

I’ve decided to pursue finishing one aspect of my reconstruction, left incomplete long ago, and ignore the rest. I am still myself, and I choose to remain who I am today.

Confession: Faith, Truth, Action

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Faith. Truth. Action.

Emunah. Emet. Mitzvot, or Tseduka.

Here’s a truth, uttered in faith: I struggle with all of these. My faith wavers, I act selfishly and have coveted the truth for myself, and I have more faith in action than I should.

I don’t really know how to handle this, either. Romans 3:28 says that we are justified by faith (although Josh McDowell dislikes that phrase, because it sounds like faith in anything is what saves, but I’m using it as Paul does, so it’s faith in Christ, thank you very much) but I don’t think I act like that’s the truth, even though I think it is.

I’m not helped by James 2:14, which says that faith without works is dead.

It’s meant to be balanced, I think. Works without faith are worthless, sacrifices made out of rote obedience at best. Faith with no action is a faith that changes nothing in the world around it, for good or for ill.

But where’s the balance?

I don’t know.

With respect to God, I do my best, knowing that my offering is not likely to be met with an immediate visceral response: I don’t do what I do for God, expecting a sort of cosmic “ka-ching!” I want to have a long-range vision of what it means to do something in faith for Him. I do it for His glory, not mine, and not in the hopes of a reward; that’s something I try to do in love for Him.

With respect to people? It’s a little harder, honestly. I act toward the people around me like action is what matters, because I don’t have the faith in them that I have in God. I don’t expect immediate reward, and honestly, I’m okay with no reward for most situations, but the truth is that after a while I get tired. I think to myself that I have done my part, I have fed the hungry, I have clothed the unclothed… when do my needs get met?

I don’t expect God to act in such a way that justifies my faith in Him, you see. His default position for me is totally justified (as if I have a right to demand justification of Him!)

But people… people I expect to justify themselves in relation to me. It’s not that I expect a personal reward, so much as I think I expect people to try to show me, somehow, that things are better than they were.

If I help someone, or if I do what they say they wanted me to do, then I find myself expecting them to pay it somewhere – if not paying me back, I expect them to pay it forward. If nothing changes, then I feel like I’ve been cheated, and that’s where my faith in action lies – meaning that it’s where my faith is, as well as where that faith is dishonest.

I find myself thinking of the Trinity. It, too, is like the three legs on a tripod; maybe God is represented by truth, Jesus is represented by action, and the Holy Spirit is represented by faith. Or maybe God is represented by action, and the Holy Spirit is represented by truth, and… you get the idea. I don’t think the symbols are more than symbols – attaching too great a value demeans what the symbols are supposed to represent.

But it’s a useful thought, nonetheless – maybe I need to focus more on the interrelation between faith, truth, and action, such that I can find a greater balance inside.