The Game of Life

Have you ever watched a sport about which you know nothing? It is utterly baffling. Take football, for example. There are a bunch of men wearing a lot of bulky clothing, and they throw around an oddly-shaped ball, and they all jump on each other in an apparent attempt to kill each other, and it somehow involves a pool, but there is no water in sight. Yeah. What a great game. Should I happen to find myself sitting in front of a football game (which happens only very rarely, and usually by accident) I stay on the fringes and watch the people watching football because watching the people playing football makes no sense to me.

I feel like that about life in general a fair bit of time, actually. Interacting with people often feels like a sport about which I know nothing. It feels like an elaborate game that I just don't get. There are rules (spoken and unspoken) and players and an objective, but I never quite understand the rules, I'm not sure what the objective is, and mostly I feel like I can't communicate with the other players very well.

I'm odd. I know it. I'm somewhat good at pretending I'm fairly normal for periods of time, but inside, I know it's an illusion. I'm fairly eccentric, with a veneer of normal covering the lot of oddness inside, and the longer someone knows me, the more my eccentricity is going to leak out. I know I'm odd.

I know it, because on the occasions that I try to explain the things that I think about, the people with whom I'm talking look at me like I'm slightly mad. Not barking mad, perhaps, but definitely slightly mad. They have a look on their faces that says, "Who even thinks about stuff like that?" Sometimes they say it out loud, suggesting that I'm joking about what I've told them, that I'm saying it to be funny or outrageous, and that I don't really think about the things that I say I think about. Well, I do. All the time. All. The. Time.

I know it because, when I talk about things I find fascinating, the people with whom I'm talking glaze over, and the conversation dries up quickly. Worse, they suggest that I'm acting like a show-off or a know-it-all, or trying to be clever, or using some useless information to avoid talking about other truly important stuff - whatever that might be. But it wasn't useless information to me. It was information I cared enough about to spend time learning about. It was information that I found fascinating, I was hoping against hope that others might find it interesting, too, and I trusted enough the people with whom I was talking to actually share that bit of information and believe it wouldn't be met with a blank gaze or an eye-roll or misunderstanding.

I know it because, when I listen to many of the things other people talk about, I feel like I have no idea what they're talking about. I feel like I'm listening to a foreign language sometimes. I feel like there's a subtext that I'm just too dumb to grasp. I feel the same way I do when I hear people talking about football. Is that even English? And if it is English, why is it that everyone else seems to understand what is being said, but I don't? I know I'm odd because when I listen to other people's conversations, very often, I feel like a complete fool. I feel like I should sit on the sidelines watching other people play an elaborate game they clearly understand, and the best I can do is watch, because I don't have a clue what's going on. So many times, judging by people's reactions, when I've tried to join in, I've said the wrong thing, acted the wrong way, or generally done something that is perceived as inappropriate or awkward, and I don't know what I did or said that was so odd.

Quite honestly, I feel slightly panicky much of the time I'm with people. Ask me a question, a question that, for most people appears totally innocuous, and the thought process might go something like this:

"So, what did you do this weekend?"
      
(Why are you asking me this? Are you asking because you really want to know, or are you simply making small talk? Because if you're asking to make small talk, I really don't understand why you're asking at all. Why would you ask me something you don't really care to know the answer to? But if you're asking because you really want to know, and I tell you the truth, how will you react? If I tell you what I did this weekend, what if you think I'm mad? What can I tell you about what I did this weekend that will sound relatively normal? What sort of person are you? What sort of things will you think are normal and interesting things to do on a weekend? How well do I know you? How much do I care if you think I'm mad? How well do you know me? Do you already think I'm crazy, so what I tell you won't make much of a difference? What to say, what to say, what to say?) "Nothing much. I spent some time doing stuff around the house." (Stuff like, you know, reading about William Pitt the Younger, an interest which was triggered by something else I read, and which led me on an exploration of familial mental illness, gout, alcoholism, the American War of Independence, the Napoleonic Wars between France and Britain, William Wilberforce, and the abolition of slavery. I wonder, was William Pitt the Younger really mentally ill, or was he just a product of his upbringing? But if I tell you all of that, I know you'll think I'm crazy. Hopefully,  you'll think I spent my weekend vacuuming, which, while perhaps boring, is a fairly normal thing to do, unlike spending an afternoon reading about a British prime minister from the 1700's. But what a fascinating man he was . . . .)

No, really, you don't think all of that! Do you? Yes, really, I do. In the seconds between someone asking me a question and me coming up with an answer, I think all of that. And more. And nine times out of ten, the words and ideas and feelings that are in my head crowd so furiously that the mere thought of trying to sort them into comprehensible and socially acceptable words feels overwhelming. I can do it if I am well-rested. I can do it if I feel safe. I can do it if I feel like you're understanding of my eccentricities. I can do it if I have had enough time to sort through my thoughts and feelings, to unravel them and organise them neatly ahead of time (which probably explains my affinity for writing). I'll dare to try it if I think the person might share my interests. I'll dare to try it if I trust the person enough. But catch me when I'm tired, or stressed, or feeling unsafe, or feeling under pressure to meet unspoken expectations (that subtext that I simply cannot comprehend, no matter how many times it is explained to me), and what comes out will be something either utterly noncommittal or utterly uncensored. Not because I'm trying to hedge, nor because I'm actually a rude and nasty person (although perhaps I am), but because the effort of trying to find suitable words, placed in a socially-acceptable delivery pattern, to describe the cacophony inside my head requires far more energy than I possess in the moment.

And the thing of it is that, as much as I hate the feeling that I don't get the game of life, as much as I hate that people sometimes look at me like I've said something bizarre, as deeply as it hurts when the people I love most deeply still seem to misunderstand me despite my best efforts to explain what is going on, deep down, I love the world inside my head. It's a delightful, exciting, wonder-filled, worship-filled space, filled with endless fascinations and intriguing possibilities. And that inside world is critically important and precious to me - far too precious to allow it to be knocked about by those who prefer to think it at best uninteresting and at worst as madness and folly.

So I learn to cope. On good days, I do my best to navigate this game called Life. Sometimes, I manage a couple of good passes. For a step or two, I can sidestep the pack of other players about to bury me. When I drop the ball or get buried under the other players, I can even admit my oddness out loud, make a joke of it, and carry on. I have learned to laugh at myself. With a very small handful of people indeed, I dare to reveal a bit more of the eccentric and wonderful world inside my head. But invariably, what feels like a gross misfit begins to rub too hard. I fumble more than I pass. I get crushed under a pile of odd looks faster than I can sidestep them. Learning to laugh at myself, and being laughed at by others are two quite different things. I simply must step away from the game. I must go back to my books, back to my thoughts, back to the high-definition world of wonder that remains inside the boundaries of my skull.

Back into the arms of the One who created me in all my mad glory, who knows my every thought even before I do, who loves me fully, who delights in my eccentricities.

With him, there is perfect understanding.

With him, I belong.

Unmitigated Bleat

"'Dear me!' said he, turning over the pages, 'what a chorus of groans, cries, and bleatings! What a rag-bag of singular happenings! But surely the most valuable hunting-ground that ever was given to a student of the unusual! . . . Here are the Daily Gazette extracts of the last fortnight. "Lady with a black boa at Prince’s Skating Club"—that we may pass. "Surely Jimmy will not break his mother’s heart"—that appears to be irrelevant. "If the lady who fainted on Brixton bus"—she does not interest me. "Every day my heart longs—" Bleat, Watson—unmitigated bleat!'" (Adventure of the Red Circle).

So spoke Sherlock Holmes of the agony columns in the newspapers in London, England, in 1895. He could have been talking about Facebook, or Twitter, or any of the many other modern agony columns that arrive in our very pockets every minute of every day. Bleat, Watson -- unmitigated bleat.

And I am getting weary of it.

I have increasingly felt that social media has become, well, less social. It has begun to feel ugly to me, and painful. There was a time when it seemed like a place to connect with family and friends. I saw photos and heard stories about the happenings of those I care about. It was fun and kind.

I'm not sure if Facebook and Twitter is changing, or if I'm just getting old and cranky. Both are possible. But more often than not, lately, my reaction to my newsfeeds is not so much "oh, that's nice", but "ouch, that hurt". The change has come about as more and more of us post links and rants about all the things we are against. 

It's a subtle difference.

There's a difference between saying, "I love adopting mutts," and saying, "If you adopt pure-bred dogs, you support puppy mills."
There's a difference between saying, "I love being a vegetarian," and posting a picture of a horribly-abused veal calf and saying, "If you eat meat, this is what you support."
There's a difference between saying, "Here's why I homeschool," and saying, "If you send your kids to school, you're sending them into an academic desert where creativity and excellence go to die."
There's a difference between saying, "Here are some reasons why I support this political leader," and saying, "If you support that political leader you're supporting the next Stalin or Hitler, and you're ok with babies washing up on shore in Greece."
There is a difference between defending that with which I agree and attacking that with which I don't. It is easy to attack another's position; it is much more difficult to articulate and defend my own.

But there's another dimension.

Most of us are too polite, or too kind to rage against our personal pet issues to those we know are directly involved in them.

Most of us would not directly tell the public school teacher in our life that we find public school teachers lazy, irresponsible, overpaid, entitled slobs, but we have no problem posting the article that says such.
We would not go directly to a person we know is voting Conservative, or Liberal, or NDP, and tell them to their face that their chosen party is heartless, irresponsible, uncaring, fascist, anarchist, or whatever adjective you choose to use, but without a second thought, we post such things.
We would not go to the Bible college professors in our lives and tell them that Bible colleges are wastelands of liberalism and the reason why people stop believing, but we dare post such stuff on Facebook.
We would not do that. We would soften our words. We would moderate our approach. We would be less pugnacious and more personable.

The problem is that when we post this stuff on Facebook, we are not taking any time to think about who might be reading it. And so my public school teacher friend learns that I think her a lazy, entitled slob. My Conservative friend discovers that I think she is voting for the next Adolph Hitler. My schoolteacher friend finds out that I think she is crushing my child's spirit. My doctor friend reads that I think she is in a grand conspiracy with big pharma to hide cures and keep me dependent on her and her drugs. My farmer friend realises that I think she keeps her animals in deplorable conditions.

I have found out things like this from my Facebook feed. I have learned that people who are kind to my face may actually think horrible things about me behind my back - at least, if I am to take seriously what they post on Facebook. It has made me suspicious of people. It has hurt me. It has even brought me to tears. You think that about me? Wow.

And I suspect that I have done the same to others. I am under no delusions that I have not posted something carelessly, or perhaps even carefully, that has hurt a friend.

I'm tired of the endless stream of groans, cries, and bleatings as we all stand on our isolated soapboxes and scream out to the world words we would never say if we stood face to face. I would not say to you the things I say when I don't have to look you in the eye and see the hurt there. You would not say them to me if you saw how what you said made my face crumple and my heart break. We would not be so cruel and careless with our words if we could see how our darts hit and stick and make each other bleed.

Oh, sure, we might still hold our precious beliefs. We might still secretly think the things we now tell the world. Or, maybe not. Maybe, if instead of simply lobbing my opinions out there, I was forced to defend them, face to face, and see how they affected you, I would realise I don't have to be so pertinacious. Maybe my cherished ideas would be refined and honed by being held up to others' ideas, instead of becoming hardened and brittle. Maybe my stubborn heart would be softened by the tears of others instead of dried out and impenetrable in the desert of social media.

I have largely turned off the"rag-bag of singular happenings". My heart can tolerate only so much. The "chorus of groans, cries, and bleatings" hurts me too much, too often. I have to protect my heart on too many fronts. I have largely stopped posting. I'm tired of it. It wearies me.

"Bleat, Watson -- unmitigated bleat."

No more.

Speak To Each Other In Psalms

Recently, I have become familiar with the music of a group of musicians called Shiyr Poets. I first heard one of their songs on our Christian radio station, and, intrigued, I looked further into the group. Headed by Brian Doerkson, this group of three men and a woman have undertaken to writing each of the 150 psalms of the Bible to music.

Now, I grew up in a tradition that had set the 150 psalms to music, so this wasn't a terribly new concept for me, but the song I heard on the radio that day gripped me. I mentioned Shiyr Poet's project to a friend and colleague, someone who might love the Psalms even more than I do, and he quickly purchased both the CDs that the group has produced to date, approximately the first 20 of 150 psalms. And I, being the frugal offspring of frugal Dutch immigrants that I am, then borrowed the CDs from him.

I have been playing the first CD in my car, on my one-way hour-long commute, for the last week. I've only gotten to the first CD. Psalms 1-10. And it has challenged the way I view worship, and what we like to call worship music.

I like my songs to be sensible. Verse, chorus, verse, chorus, bridge, chorus, chorus. Isn't that how a song is supposed to go? Or, at least, in the tradition in which I grew up, verse, verse, verse, verse. But these songs . . . they move all over. Just when I think I've picked up a line of a tune, the tune changes. The instruments change. The music shouts and cries, laughs and sighs. It moves all over. It's not neat.

And neither are the words. I start to listen, and I think, "Oh, good, a happy song," and in a heartbeat, the song turns to lament. Ok, maybe not happy. Maybe sad. And with a sigh, the words change again. I find my heart twisting and turning inside me. It's not neat.

And I realise how much I've come to expect songs to fit into neat categories. Even the ones in the Bible. I like to categorise them. Pigeonhole them. This is a lament psalm. This one is a thanksgiving psalm. And this over here is a solid praise psalm. It's taken a while, but I've gotten comfortable with the notion that not all psalms are praise psalms, and that crying is a legitimate voice of worship. Indeed, it is the loudest voice of worship in the Book of Praises. But, listening to the Shiyr Poets, I realised that my neat little categories don't work. More, I realised I was becoming almost angry about it. I felt like my heart was being twisted and turned inside me. How dare they wrench me from laughter into tears, and then back again? Sure, lament has a place, but in its place. And it's place is not inside my laughter. Who writes songs like this, anyway, songs that twist from laughter to tears to expressions of childlike trust and back into tears in merest heartbeats?

Umm. . .

Right.

Because life isn't neat. It's not tidily categorised into Hallmark moments. It's a messy mix of laughter and sorrow, belly laughs and sobs so deep I feel they will turn me inside out. And maybe there's something to the notion that both laughter and sorrow can move me to tears, both laughter and sorrow can make me clutch my stomach in pain. Maybe, just maybe, the two feelings are not so far apart as I'd like them to be.

And maybe God knows that, and has given me expression to the mess of life, expression that is just as defiant of categories as life itself is.

 And then there's the enemy talk. It never struck me how much the psalms talk about enemies. Mine and God's, and for the follower of Yahweh, they are one and the same. My enemies are God's enemies, and God's enemies are mine. The Psalms are unabashed about crying out for justice, for protection, yes, even for retribution. It's one thing to read it; there is something "polite" about reading it. You can make it sound softer. But there is nothing polite about singing it. It is a God-focused cry for justice in a world that is horribly wrong.

When I think about that logically, I like it. Especially in a world like ours, where innocent diners and concert-goers are shot dead, where innocent city-dwellers are bombed, where innocent passengers on airplanes are blasted to bits, where innocent small children are washed up on foreign shores, where hundreds upon thousands of displaced people walk hundreds of thousands of steps to find safety. I want justice. I want the bad guys to lose and the good guys to win.

But singing about it sounds so . . . rude. So militant. Like, really, I'm going to sit in my car, and sing, "Get them, God, they deserve it"? I mean, they do. I know that, academically. But to actually sing it? Wow.

So I've wrestled with that. Why is that so hard for me? Is it because I'm too North American? Too Canadian? Too nice to be willing to take a hard stand against injustice? Too indoctrinated by my culture to be willing to stare evil in the eye and declare it evil and pray that God will intervene? Too proud and hot-headed, perhaps, to take my enemies to God and leave them there? Perhaps I'll just complain and curse them, but never bring them to God? I'll think about them and whisper about them and rant about them to people who can do nothing about them, but I have a hard time speaking out loud to the only One who can do something about them? How does this make sense? If the psalms speak so freely about evil and enemies, and ask God, so freely, to intervene and deliver from evil and enemies, should I not do likewise? Is it not part of what it means to be a follower of Jesus in an unjust world? I am good at cursing my enemies, but I am terrible at praying about them or for them. And yes, these psalms are prayers about, and for, my enemies. It strikes me that, as I have learned to speak the language of lament as worship, perhaps I must learn to speak the language of imprecation as worship.

What a mess. What a confusing, glorious mess. What a roller coaster of laughter and tears, love and hate, anger and trust.

And God says, "Bring it to me. Bring it all to me. Leave it all with me."

And he calls it Praise.

What a wonder.