On Becoming Oneself and the Necessity of Honesty

We all lie. We lie to others. We lie to God. We certainly lie to ourselves. But what's behind this? I have been pondering the importance of being honest with oneself lately and how that relates to the "self" one presents in everyday life. We exist always between the reality of our lives and some fabrication that insists "everything is just fine." At least, I know I do. In The Brothers Karamazov, the elder Zosima reminds papa Karamazov to quit lying to himself, as if this were the source of the man's pain and dissatisfaction with himself and his life. I don't really even know what this means - do not lie to yourself - though I'm sure I have done it just about every day of my life. I hate the confidence with which I can say that. I am a liar, plain and simple. How, then, does one fix this? Am I, are we, just destined to live forever in this dishonest and disconnected manner? What keeps us in this paralyzing cycle of continually lying to ourselves and those around us? 

Perhaps we are afraid that we will not be loved. This itself is a dilemma because if we are hiding our true selves in order to maintain some image of a healthy, functional, non-real person, we still fail to be loved. We hide behind the mask of this non-self and become so uncomfortable with the thought of the face behind the mask encountering the world, that we let few get a glimpse of the real us. More often than not, unsurprisingly, the face behind the mask isn't all too shocking. It's broken, yes, but indisputably lovable. Through habit, however, we remain behind the mask, and it always gets more difficult to let our guard fall from our faces. It really is sad.

If, however, we could begin this process of being honest to ourselves, we might begin to see that there is hope for us as individuals and as a world. I know that I can often get into a groove of thinking about how messy I am and how no one would want to associate with me and blah blah blah, out come all the lies that I have told myself for twenty-three years. Enough is enough. Yes, I am messy. No, my mess is not scary. It is something to come to vis a vis, and not run away from thinking that the real me has nothing to offer. And this is what the heart of existence is - to integrate who we are called to be with who we truly are, not with who we think is the winning face of ourselves, our false selves. This fear of not being loved, living in shame of the things we have done and the person we've become, is crippling. It is bound to lead to a long, lonely, loveless life. How can we have company or love if those around us are constantly interacting with someone, some face, that doesn't really exist?

All we want is for people to be honest with us about who they are, and that is really all others want from us. People aren't nearly as interested in our lies as we think they are. I know I'm not, so I guess I can only assume that others aren't. But if they truly aren't (as I suspect), then why continue this charade? I ask myself this question as much as I ask anybody else. Why do we keep up this masquerade? My true desire is to be seen for who I really am. What a freeing life that would be.

Christians, especially, should be on this never-ending quest to become their true selves. Of course, we've got an upper hand on the whole ordeal. The only key to healing is a relationship of love with God. It is only his love that can work this out in us. We must, however, be receptive to that love. We must be willing for this integrating, painful work to be done. I say painful because when we realize and see through the lies that we have told ourselves for years and years, it is not going to be a pretty picture. There is some serious work to be done in tandem with the Lord, but it is all necessary work. And to kick it all off, we need to get real. We need to stop lying to ourselves and know that we are loved. Christ, who knows our deepest darkest secrets, who knows our true identity, who knows us for who we really are, loves us and by that we are made lovable. Accepting that truth, believing it is what prepares us for the hard work of letting false faces fade and enables us to live in truth.

On My Life

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about what the future holds for me. I guess we all go through times of thinking more or less concentratedly about that hazy place in time. Any way, my time to focus on where I'm headed is now. Don't get me wrong, it's great, I think. Tiring, but nevertheless good. I moved to Wheaton in 2003 to go to college, majored in English Literature, minored in Theater and flirted with Psychology. In my time there, I worked part time at a Red Robin when I wasn't involved somehow in a play at Arena Theater. After graduating in May 2007, I started working full-time at Red Robin, even becoming a bartender before I quit in March 2008 to begin working at a small, privately owned restaurant called Muldoon's. I loved it there, really I did. Then, two weeks ago I moved home. Now here I am, working yet another waiting job, only this time it's at a Mexican restaurant. 

Now that I'm living with my parents again, there is a lot of pressure to figure out "what I want to do with my life" and hopefully do it. My step-father asked me not ten minutes ago, "Have you been thinking about your future" I appreciate the concern from my parents, but in some way, it needs to be clear that dealing with the future, my future, is something that I need to undertake tenderly.

I understand that they see a floundering, overweight twenty-three year old who couldn't keep his finances straight and subsequently ran into a little debt, and to some degree, that's what I see too. On the other hand, I do see it with a little more grace for myself than that. I see a guy who has been out of college for 19 months and has been struggling to make it on his own and needed a little help. That's the surface problem, I think, and if that were the only problem, that I couldn't make or manage money, there is perhaps easier salvation for me.

There is a deeper problem, however, behind this move back home. I have realized - even just in the last couple weeks of being here - that, by and large, I operate (or don't operate) based on fear. Most of the inertia I feel in any given day, in any given situation results from some sort of fear. I don't get it. All I know is that I'm young, and instead of taking some serious risks in determining what I want to do with myself, I have been sitting in comfort, refusing to grow up, and avoiding any possible failure as though it were a deadly disease. What am I afraid of? That I won't succeed? Maybe. That I will succeed? It's possible. Or is the fear not related to success? I just don't know.

"To those whom much has been given, much will be expected." I was told lately that I had this verse written all over me. Damn. And here I sit. Doing nothing, again. Wasting time reading spoilers for Heroes and compulsively checking facebook. What am I afraid of? What, what, what?

I think it's having things required of me. Commitment. That's it. That's what it has to be. The dreamer part of me thinks, "Oh sure, what a fantastic life I'll live," but then the realist catches up and says, "Well, things aren't really going to be that easy for you. You're going to have to put some work into finding a career; keeping a marriage together; raising children - especially now that we're in a recession." It's this fear of commitment, damn it, that keeps me from truly enjoying to its fullness the life I have been given. My inability to say, "I'm going to stick with this until I know I hate it" is what is forcing me to sit around, letting any potential gifting I have go to waste. It's a pity, really. More than anything else, it's a pity. 

But I'm growing all the time. Figuring it out each day. Praying for courage and strength. I know that there is something fulfilling just around the corner, if only I were brave enough to look and see, and seeing, do. 

Here we go. Here's to fear being dispelled, once and for all.

In the name of the Lord.

And, Now, A Story

“Do you love me?”

He had no idea what to say.

“Do you love me?” she repeated.

He had often pondered what it meant to be in love with someone. Time and time again, he realized that he hadn’t the vaguest clue.

“I mean, like that, you know? I’ve always thought of love as agape, like the unconditional love thing. Well, at least when I say it that’s what I mean. But it seems like there is something else for when a man loves a woman. You know? I’m a woman. You’re a man. It just seems like when we say that we love each other there should be something else too. Like, an ideal. Agape and being in love.”

Still, he could think of nothing to say to her. He thought of the Greeks and their many words for love and how lucky they were and how they would have never had this conversation. Even if they did, he wondered, what would they say? Do you eros me? Strange, but not unthinkable, he supposed. The only thing that he could do was look into her blue eyes, touching her face with the back of his hand. His hand would find her stomach, and he noted its softness and how much he enjoyed her bellybutton. But still, he had no answer to her question.

“It’s just that, for most couples it’s a pretty big deal when they start saying ‘I love you’ and I don’t know that it was for us. I don’t know,” she continued.

He thought of the way she looked in the morning – makeupless and glorious. He remembered the first time he woke up next to her and how, for once, he was glad to be awake. She laid beside him, still asleep. He recalled admiring the curve of her nose and the little bump it had toward the top, closer to the brow. He remembered the way her lips parted as she breathed – he thought them to be the most kissable lips he had ever seen. The scar below her right eyebrow was a true beauty to him. The freckle on the bottom of her right earlobe, just below her piercing, came to mind. He thought the sound of her breath when her mouth was close to his ear and the resulting shivering sensation that flooded down his back.

“Will you ever tell me if you’re in love with me?” she asked.

He didn’t know that he could because he didn’t know what this meant. What he did know was how she looked as she explained the contents of her room to him. He knew that she had treasures from childhood. She shared them generously with him, omitting no detail, and he knew that she was beautiful. He knew the sound of her laugh and knew when she was on the verge of announcing, “That’s what she said.” He knew they had inside jokes that would always be funny to only them. He knew that he would forever think Oprah was in every limousine he saw. He knew that she was, without a doubt, one of, if not the, funniest women he had ever known. He knew that when she smoked, she was transcendent. He knew the sound of her voice, the rhythm of her speech, and had learned that scathing sarcasm was her love-language. She insulted him a lot.

“I mean, obviously you will, but will you make sure that I know it’s in love with?"

He couldn’t make that promise. But he knew that she celebrated and respected him. He knew that he was his true self when he was with her. He knew that he could sit with her forever.

He loved her.

And she knew.

Tradition

It fills me with utter joy to know that right now I am not a part of Arena Theater's Strike of A Midsummer Night's Dream. Beyond this room, there are many people who, together, are celebrating and saying goodbye to 7 intense weeks of work on a play. I did so for four years and have now seen four strikes come and go in my time out of school. For some reason, knowing that there is something in the space - some vivacity - that sustains the tradition of strike and has nothing to do with me is comforting beyond words. The work that happens in that place - that wonderful, flawed place - is compelling enough to keep people coming back, greeting plays, and then saying goodbye to them. Fantastic.

I thought that it must have been abnormal while I was there. I thought that I was unusually blessed to encounter such a group of people at such a time in my life so as to offer me such joy. Now I realize that Arena Theater is the unusually blessed one. It continues to receive and send out wonderfully beautiful people, and so, the glorious traditions - Strike, Workout Christmas, et al. - continue. I am not unique to the place, and this thought, of sharing the beauty of the space and its traditions with so many people - past, current, and those to come - is the true blessing that falls on this side of Arena Theater.

I spent so much time last year thinking about how I was missing out on so much; the community, the work of a place, parties, friends; and I spent so little time thinking about how blessed I was to have been commissioned from such a place to "serve the Lord with gladness and singleness of heart." The time I spent wallowing in my distance from the space and its work was time that I could have spent celebrating the common experience that I have with so many beautiful people. Now I know. Now I see. Now I, again, rejoice with those who rejoice.

The Real Question Is...

...what does it mean to be good? Not nice, not pleasant. Good.

I was talking with one of my buddies just a little bit ago, telling him, "I try to be a good guy." As soon as I said it, I realized that I didn't have any real idea what exactly I meant by that. I try to be kind to people I can hardly tolerate? I try to buy my friends fast food when I drive? I try to mostly stay out of people's way by not upsetting them? Sure, I do all these things, but does that really constitute goodness? The only answer that seems true is: no.

Goodness, I've been told, means that you do the hard thing. You have the conversation that no one wants to have because it's related to someone's health. I've also heard that it means never getting drunk. From what I can put together, goodness looks like a Baptist congregation. Not that I have anything against Baptists (I don't), but they seem to be fairly renowned for keeping-it-down. That just seems boring. While I know that goodness is not necessarily something that comes easy to Man, it must at least look somewhat fulfilling, right? And the angelic choir boy image is not, in the least, appealing. It's actually sort of annoying. So what, then, does it mean to be good? I mean, truly good. It can't comprise of a list of non-deeds. "I've never been in a fight,"; "I've never had sex,"; "I never drink more than I know I can hold." Wrong. Goodness can't be not being bad. It simply can't. Not being bad is simply that; not being bad. So, then, what? How does one live a life that can be called "good?"

It must be a matter of alignment of heart. Intent to bless and lift up is good, while flying under the radar to not piss people off is just not bad. Right? But how do I align my heart so that I might consistently be a source of love and comfort to my brother? What does that heart even look like? It can't be the heart that just sits around and feels worthless everytime it violates a commandment. That's just an over stimulated guilt complex. If we sat around and thought about how often we screwed up, it would be a lonely life. A lonely, unforgiven life. So goodness must be a turning towards something else. Not a turning away from. It's looking at the past, and turning towards repentance. I suppose that's the key to goodness: repentance. If repentance is turning the heart toward God, it must be. So why do we only wait until we feel that we've transgressed far enough to make that final leap to God's forgiving grasp. Are we not, at all times, fallen creatures? Are we not creatures who always need constant reminding of his good, most loving heart? But how does this realignment with God's forgiving heart manifest itself practically? How? What does it look like?

I don't want to be a nice guy - they finish last - I want to be a good man, repectable and kind.

How?

What To Do? Oh, What To Do?

I finally know that I will never be satisfied with an occupation unless it involves working with a group of actors - writing for them, directing, or acting beside. I don't know what all this means just yet, but I know that it's true.
This last year I have spent an ungodly amount of time in front of the television. In the last twelve months I have watched.

3 Seasons of Arrested Development. Several times.
7 Seasons of Scrubs. Some of them twice.
2 Seasons of The Office.
Several seasons of The Simpsons.
4 Seasons of Lost.
1 Season of 30 Rock.
2 Seasons of Heroes.
2 Seasons of Weeds.

Needless to say, I have seen some episodes from each of the shows more than once.

There is a certain spark between the actors themselves and their dialogue. I don't know what it is, but it's what makes them fun to watch. It's what's compelling. It's what keeps us coming back to them week after week, or, in some cases, what makes us watch "just one more" until 7 in the morning.
I want, no, need to be a part a group that does this sort of work. I don't necessarily mean television, but I do mean a group of people that come together to work for a common product. I don't want to write novels. I don't want to write short stories. I want to create stories. I want to be a part of a team that brings them to life. Embodies them. I realize now why novel writing, poetry, short stories have always been so hard for me. It's hard for me to get them anywhere without bodies. I suppose poetry does present a different case than story writing, however. My writing needs bodies. The stories I want to tell need to be spoken, not just read.
It's finally coming together.

But now...
...how?

The Top 10 Of The 2008 Summer

After much deliberation, I have decided that it is time to post my "Top 10 Of The 2008 Summer." I know everyone has been waiting with baited breath to find out what exactly I would list in my top 10 - music? memories? people? It could be any of these. You have all proven to be truly loyal friends and underlings, and I have no doubt that my approval or recognition of you or some moment we shared would be enough to give you a lifetime of satisfaction and be righteous cause for you to die happy. You can't, however, all be winners. And now, for the first time, I present to you - Christian's Top 10 of Summer '08.

10) On one of the early weekends in the summer, about ten of us walked from the girls' townhouse to the Dairy Queen in DT Wheaton. While this is not necessarily a spectacular event in and of itself, I would like to recount some of the highlights. A) Alyssa Keysor with her cement breaking knees. B) Cori and Amanda singing to everyone about themselves in turn. C) Dog pile on College Avenue. Truly, this was an event for the history books.

9) Home Run Derby in the Little League Field. While I do not necessarily like to toot my own horn, I must recount the fact that I slaughtered my opponents with nine home runs while the nearest runner-up followed with a mere two. After him, zero home runs. Game. Set. Match. Homer.

8) A night of joy at the Anderson household. While my friendship to the parties involved does not allow me to relay the intimate details of the night I will list several words that come to mind in light of this evening; mantime, sparks, nail polish, David Spade, cannabis, techtonique, MacGruber. And finally, glory.

7) Attending the Prairie Ridge High School Baseball team's championship game (as well as semifinals) to cheer on Cori's little brother. Needless to say, the Wolves dominated and emerged gloriously with the state championship title. I recall heckling the other team. That was when I knew I was destined to be a bleacher dad.

6) Cooking dinner for friends with Nathan Stewart. One night we got tired of everyone staying in and worrying about what they were going to eat. So we went out and bought a bunch of food and decided to have a several course meal with some of the ladies that were in town. Too bad we can't make a life out of it. Nate-dog and I made a good team, I think.

5) Any number of SBFF phone calls that I got from Amanda Joy Reider. While "SBFF" may not have been played out the most practically in the end, just knowing that I had a SBFF this summer made everything all the better and more wonderful. I highly suggest that everyone pick up a Summer Best Friend Forever.

4) Seeing Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull with Nathan Stewart. Wonder why? Here's your answer.

3) Friday movie mornings with Alan (and Ellie). Best. Tradition. Ever. We saw so many movies this summer it was out of control. Wall-E, Get Smart, Step Brothers, The Happening, Hancock, The Dark Knight, Tropic Thunder, Pineapple Express...amazing. All during opening day. Not only did we practically have the theaters to ourselves, but for a low, low price of $5 a ticket. Truly a tradition one wouldn't want to let go of.

2) Cubs game with Cori. Best birthday gift ever. We had incredible car rides both to and from Wrigleyville, hanging out with Cori's parents' small group. We got two pairs of seats. One in a skybox (where we got to eat free food and enjoy the delay from live action to television) and the other put us right behind the first-base side dugout allowing us to taunt the Florida Marlins as they returned from the inning. I was able to let Dan Uggla know exactly how I felt about his performance in the All-Star Game. Derrek Lee stood 30 feet away from us. I got to see Big Z pitch. We saw Mark DeRosa make an amazing, diving catch. Ronny Cedeño and Henry Blanco both homered. In the end, the Cubs won. And I bought a Fukudome headband. Truly a fantastic evening. I also got a beer out of the deal.

And the number one joy of the 2008 Summer is....

...TONGUE BEAR!

Friends, thank you so much for being a part of this summer. You all made it a fantastic three months. Let's keep it going this fall, whaddaya say?