The Cloak of Invisibility

I had this awesome opportunity recently to go to this really upscale restaurant this evening for a work event. By upscale I mean, multiple courses were served, wine, beer, the works, and yes. They even came in with a “crumb swiper” (what I cleverly named this particular device I never knew even existed) between each course.

I’d been looking forward to it all week and I was not let down. I knew that it’d be better than I imagined, and boy, was it! There was a point though, when I realized that even more than most waiters and waitresses, the jobs of these waiters and waitresses was to be invisible. They attempted to disappear. The effect that we were supposed to notice was glasses never being empty, food magically appearing before us, and wow – crumbs from our own sloppiness suddenly being gone. The sign that the job was well done was people not noticing you and not  thanking you.

I can see the appeal. It feeds an illusion that “I am the center of everything”, which most people appreciate once and again, especially if they don’t feel they matter in the rest of their lives. But for the people whose job it is to be invisible, I felt sorrow.

As I thought on it more, I recognized how much similarity that bore to my experience in the faith. Being invisible was a good thing. I thought being “emptied of myself” was necessary to being “filled with God”. I thought being myself was inherently sinful because if I lived for God, I no longer existed. I mourn for my grave misinterpretation here. But I feel like that idea is bolstered through faith communities. And even moreso for women. That issue aside, invisibility itself seemed virtuous. In fact, it sounded a lot like humility.

What is humility? Humility, to me at one time, was: not drawing attention to yourself, not accepting compliments, not allowing others to see you shine, not shining. Not standing out. I heard lessons on it. People often described me as humble. I wonder sometimes if they were praising a wrong attribute.

At the time I equally despised and embraced invisibility, thinking it was humility. Thinking it was noble and virtuous, all while demeaning myself, God’s creation. Acting as though I was embarrassed by it. Perhaps even being embarrassed by it.

Philippians talks about humility. About Jesus not seeing equality with God as something to be “grasped” or “used to his advantage”, or whatever your translation says. If Jesus is the image of humility, holy crap, we have got to redefine it. I can’t think of many people more visible than Jesus. He did things that were weird, that brought attention to himself, that would naturally lead people to praise him. Did he do it for the attention and praise? That’s debatable, I suppose, depending of definitions and interpretations; regardless he didn’t shy away from doing things that brought attention to himself or caused himself to stand out.

Likewise, we are God’s creation. Don’t we think that what he creates is good? Don’t we think that if Jesus was so visible that we can be too? This isn’t justification for us to act as though we have all the answers. But it is reason to question why we so seek invisibility.

I think we seek invisibility for one reason. We are ashamed. We are ashamed of what God created when he made us. We are ashamed of what we have become. And we are afraid others will see us and think the same awful things of us that we think of ourselves.

That’s why our culture is obsessed with anonymity. The internet seems to have been invented for crap like that. We love to hide behind our usernames and say things we wouldn’t have the boldness to say elsewhere. Even “in person”, we love the freedom of interacting with people we know we will never ever see again, knowing that they probably won’t judge us and that even if they do, it won’t have the power to affect us the next day. We love anonymity. We love things that isolate us, all while simultaneously hating to be lonely. We love the mystery that we are while fearing that no one would love us if they truly knew us and fearing that we will never be known (ultimately my biggest fear).

Or we embrace the spotlight… At least insofar as we are projecting the values we admire and think others might too. I have received a handful of awards in my lifetime. I am simultaneously ashamed and proud of them. I don’t want people to know because I don’t want to be reduced to what the awards say about me. But I want people to know because, man, I want people to recognize that I am officially worth something, not just subjectively. I am a huge words-of-affirmation person. I need it to feel like I matter, to feel like life is worth living. Yet, I’m terrified of standing out because I feel it is ungodly.

Ironically, I don’t think standing out is. Being recognized isn’t. Being blessed by it isn’t. Yet, embracing the spotlight as affirmation of where I stand because of shame I inherently feel? Embracing anonymity because of the shame I inherently feel? That demonstrates a lack of security in my understanding of God’s love for me. That’s not meant to bring on more shame or more expectations. It’s meant to bring further reason to rest in God and to seek his vision and his love for us.

Over the past several months, prayer has become terrifying to me. Because more than ever I have desired anonymity, even with God. Sometimes it’s hard to serve a God who “knows my name”, as the song says. It’s easier to serve a faceless God who doesn’t care about names. I get that. It’s how I think. It’s how the world operates. More risk is involved when it includes me. All of me. And prayer is impossible when anonymity is involved. Prayer is the central place where the cloak of invisibility is removed and where I am forced to come to grips with who I am truly. With all my good traits and bad. And to know that all of me is accepted by God. Or to trust it, even when my fear doesn’t allow for that sort of love to even be imaginable.

I pray to be a presence that doesn’t drive people to seek anonymity or the spotlight. I pray to be a presence that truly sees people and affirms who they are. Man, forget that. Even my language shows my strive for anonymity. I don’t pray to be a “presence”. I pray to be a person, man. I pray to be that kind of person. One that accepts fully in a way that doesn’t cause people to pull back in fear or shame of revealing themselves and one that accepts so fully that people don’t feel the need to exonerate their best qualities to make up for where they lack. And God, I hope one day I trust that I’m accepted fully and that maybe, just maybe, I can appreciate myself in the same way.

EDIT: Totally meant to close with this quote from Marianne Williamson. I know many people who take offense to it and think it's a horrible, self-exalting stance. But given the thrust of this blog entry, I hope we can all appreciate this quote in a new way (even if, like me, you already loved it):

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

The Master Switchboard

Yes, I have been posting a whole lot lately. I feel like I'm finally in a place where I feel "safe" to explore things freely again. Life seems to happen in phases, and freedom happens in different ways at different times. In fact, that's more or less what this entry is about.

I guess you could say that stability is not a thing I am well-accustomed to. I grew up in a military family. It had plenty of benefits and I am so grateful for the weird, unique scenario I grew up in. I am grateful that I thought it was normal. And I am grateful for the experiences I had that were unique to "military brats". I would not re-do it another way. That said, growing up military always introduces some level of inherent/expected instability. I remember people saying, "You can only expect the unexpected" or "The only unchanging thing in your life is change itself". They were nice little aphorisms that seemed to apply deep meaning to my experience. At this point, I don't think they hold deep meaning at all. I think that they express reality as I and others like me knew it. It was no better, it was no worse, it was just reality.

Things in my life have always had a level of inconsistency or uncertainty. I became accustomed to moving every three years, but I was homeschooled so the moves never affected my academic life. But... I mean, I was homeschooled. That doesn't make for a life that is consistent with what the "majority" experienced. I grew up going to church, but by the age of 14, I was the only person in my family pursuing that sort of community at that time. I went to public school for high school after having been homeschooled for my whole life (more or less) previously. That didn't make for an easy transition. I was part of the Church of Christ. A tradition I admire for certain things, but one that I think lacks in many other areas (as all church "traditions" do - thank God for community that supersedes differences in perspective).

Perhaps the most interesting transitions in my life, a life set up for inconsistency, took place when I was able to make my own decisions. At 18 I moved to the inner city of Chicago to be a part of a volunteer program that emphasized social justice, intentional Christian community, and service. That year I was exposed to social justice for the first time. Growing up military, strangely, justice is somewhat presupposed. I'm sure it's not as equal as I imagined it as a kid, but I remember growing up in racially diverse military bases where all peoples were affirmed as they worked to a common purpose. Whether that reflected reality or not, I am not sure. But it sure represented what I perceived. But Mission Year (the volunteer program: www.missionyear.org) exposed me to realities I had never seen nor experienced.

For the first time, words like "justice", "community", and "solitude" had meanings much deeper than words could convey.  By this point I had been deeply a part of the "Church of Christ" tradition. Mission Year led me to a gospel Missionary Baptist Church, unlike any other church I had been a part of, though I cared for it and many of its members very deeply. The following year I entered a "Swedish Covenant" school. It was more liberal than any church I had been to before. I mean, our campus minister was a woman.

Those years at North Park University, I struggled to reconcile ideas of gender as in Mission Year I struggled to reconcile ideas of race. My concept of my own identity was fluid. I no longer knew what to feel or expect.

Throughout my time as a thinking adult on my own, I moved away from the traditional Church of Christ and became part of a Calvary Chapel church. Then I moved to the inner-city of Chicago and learned about ideas like "white privilege" which I had previously never heard of and inherently took for granted. I became part of a Missionary Baptist Church. Then a Swedish Covenant school. Then a Reformed Church. Then a Pentecostal Church. Then a Greek Orthodox Church.

My concept of myself has changed radically as a result of being a military brat. Where I live doesn't determine who I am, but where I live has significant effect on how I live, who I live among, and how I live among them. The various Church experiences. Oh my gosh, don't get me started.

Theology is so fiercely debated. I don't feel like I have a monopoly on truth simply as a result of having been exposed to multiple "traditions" and "truths". But as a result of such, I absolutely believe that God is so much bigger than any of us imagined and that no church "tradition" has a monopoly on truth. I am more likely to affirm that people outside the church have views on the ultimate Truth that are just as valid as those inside the Church. I am less likely to be quote-unquote "orthodox", and I am less concerned about many "unorthodox" beliefs.

I feel like as a result of my many experiences in different places: physically, spiritually, and emotionally, that I have a main switchboard containing all of my experiences. I can see the good and bad of each tradition so far as my limited view of Truth allows me. For each tradition I become a part of, I feel as though I have to turn off a main part of the master switchboard - the accumulation of my experiences. Each place I become a part of, which PART I have to shut off changes, but it is inevitable that not every part of my "switchboard" will be accepted and included as worthwhile or valuable.

It gives me a mini-crisis of identity. Of my place among fellow believers. Or my place among those that don't believe. I don't know who or where I connect with more. I connect differently on different things that I don't feel at home anywhere that I am. Maybe growing up military has prepared me for such a life.

I just can't for the life of me grasp how anybody can claim to have the monopoly on Truth or on God when so many different truths are revealed more clearly among different communities. As someone who has lived as an "alien" among so many unfamiliar i, I plead with everyone to consider another point of view. Cast off what you previously thought you "knew". Maybe it is true. Maybe it's not. If it is, return to it after exercising faith in an unfamiliar context. In the end, we don't know the Truth. We have ideas about what it could be, or what it would be if we were the ones commanding it. But we are to love unconditionally. That keeps us humble. Servitude keeps us humble when our exultation of what we perceive to be truth has a tendency to puff us up and make us arrogant.

I pray that we would pursue truth. That we would pursue unity. And that we would pursue humility - even when it necessarily means that we accept our wrongness of multiple topics which we have stood by so passionately for so long. I pray that we would be open to the possibility that we don't hold Truth perfectly in our hands, that we would be in conversation with others that rub us the wrong way, and that we would be transformed into more loving people. I pray that we would not have to turn off any parts of the "Master Switchboard" our confused little lives have become. I pray that our "confused, little lives" would lead us to greater humility and greater unity as we pursue Truth as a community.

Decisions and Doors.

Decision-making has always been incredibly stressful to me, at least so far as memory serves. I'm sure I made decisions in my childhood, but I don't recall making any decisions that were branded as "life altering" until I was in high school. That said, at that age, many decisions felt life-altering.

I remember in particular picking my classes for my Sophomore year of high school. It was my first time actually picking classes. I don't know if that's typical or not, I was homeschooled from 1st grade on, but for me it was a big deal. Somehow I had gotten it in my head that if I didn't take honors classes that I would never get into college and that if I didn't get into college, I would never get a stable job. I don't know if I had a concept of a stable job or if I have one now. From what I understand it is common for individuals to change careers an average of 7 times in their working life. Of course, guidance counselors never emphasized that statistic.

I recently reread my journal from that time and what I found both amused and disturbed me. I had written something to this effect: I am terrified I am going to choose the wrong classes and ruin my life.

Ironically I chose the "wrong" classes in my Junior year and ended up having to drop two AP classes for which no Honors classes were available, meaning I was in the "regular" classes I feared would ruin me. And they didn't.

Consistently I am met by choice after choice, decision after decision. When I graduated high school I had three paths laid before me: an academically rigorous college on a full-ride scholarship in-state, a really good school in my favorite state near family, or delaying school to do a volunteer program called Mission Year (www.missionyear.org - accepting applications till July 15!). I chose Mission Year - and yes, my life was significantly altered, though I trust it is for the better.

I chose to stay in Chicago. I applied to an academically rigorous school and was even accepted into the honors program. I also applied to North Park University. I chose North Park, and my life was changed in ways I never would have imagined.

I've discovered that the metaphor of Doors absolutely terrifies me. I'm cool with God closing doors. If God would swoop in every time and be like, "Oh, Emily, let me get that for you. It's not the way." Maybe at some point I might resent it. But I have no way of knowing because God has never worked that way in my life, not yet, not that I've noticed anyway.

I don't close doors well. I like to leave them ajar. I like to have access permanently granted. I also struggle intensely when multiple doors are open, even moreso if it necessitates that I close all the other doors.

There's such a pressure present with choosing that brings back that insane and pathetically amusing high school fear, "What if I make the wrong choice and ruin my life?"

I have tried philosophizing it, thinking, "Well, maybe in each person's life there are some things that are inevitable if you follow a positive trajectory. If I was supposed to start some amazing social service or ministry or become an artist or writer, it would inevitably happen if I live on a positive trajectory - it would just be a matter of timing."

I have also imagined that maybe each choice really does branch out into multiple possible worlds that lead entirely different places: different "callings", different spouses, different children, different convictions of faith and how it is lived out.

In the end, I don't know. And it drives me crazy. It can be paralyzing sometimes to be faced with multiple decisions. It can be paralyzing to know that moving on sometimes means permanently turning back from something you were holding out for. 

To some extent we live in a world that our decisions create. I no longer think that God dictates what he wants us to do in each situation. In my childhood I was convinced that God had this "best world" that was only possible through me listening to him and doing everything he told me to do. Even choosing my outfit each day seemed to have eternal ramifications.

Guess what? God's not a dictator. The Creator God who made us in his image desires to see us create, explore, imagine. If what we do contributes to the Kingdom, God will be pleased. Is there a best possible world? I don't know. But I trust that God prefers me to rejoice in my freedom to bless him and bless others by moving forward rather than to stagnate.

In the past 12 months I moved to a brand new state (well, the state itself isn't new), became part of a church that I moved here more or less to be a part of, joined the praise team/worship band at the church, started a job that ended very painfully, started another job and discovered a latent passion for art, quit that job, started another job that unexpectedly has been just what I needed for this particular stage in my life, made great friendships, and have begun to figure out plans for the upcoming year.

This year has been a struggle in many senses, particularly relating to identity. Who I am is not what I do, but what I do is an outpouring of who I am. Whether that expression result from a job or a hobby or a service. Each decision leads me closer to discovering myself, expression myself, and hopefully falling more in line with how God created me to be.

At times I have felt paralyzed, but this year I can see that I put myself out there time and time again, despite the uncertainty. I was willing to try something and willing to accept that like my Junior year, at times I will make the wrong decisions. But even those guide me forward and onward.

It can be a painful journey, but I am learning to have less fear. I hope and pray that I am learning to trust God more, no longer needing to rely on philosophization of how decisions and doors work. Maybe God doesn't close doors for me because he wants me to learn freedom. And that is a lesson worth learning and living into. I can walk through doors for that. I might even be able to close some. :)