A Better Story

Many people find Jesus compelling, but don’t follow him, because of the parts about “hell and torment and all that.” Somewhere along the way they were taught that the only option when it comes to Christian faith is to clearly declare that a few, committed Christians will “go to heaven” when they die and everyone else will not, the matter is settled at death, and that’s it. One place or the other, no looking back, no chance for a change of heart, make your bed now and lie in it . . . forever.

Not all Christians have believed this, and you don’t have to believe it to be a Christian. The Christian faith is big enough, wide enough, and generous enough to handle that vast a range of perspectives.

Second, it’s important that we be honest about the fact that some stories are better than others. Telling a story in which billions of people spend forever somewhere in the universe trapped in a black hole of endless torment and misery with no way out isn’t a very good story. Telling a story about a God who inflicts unrelenting punishment on people because they didn’t do or say or believe the correct things in a brief window of time called life isn’t a very good story.

In contrast, everybody enjoying God’s good world together with no disgrace or shame, justice being served, and all the wrongs being made right is a better story. It is bigger, more loving, more expansive, more extraordinary, beautiful, and inspiring than any other story about the ultimate course history takes.

Whatever objections a person might have to this story, and there are many, one has to admit that it is fitting, proper, and Christian to long for it. We can be honest about the warped nature of the human heart, the freedom that love requires, and the destructive choices people make, and still envision God’s love to be bigger, stronger, and more compelling than all of that put together. To shun, censor, or ostracize someone for holding this belief is to fail to extend grace to each other in a discussion that has had plenty of room for varied perspectives for hundreds of years now.

— Rob Bell, Love Wins, p. 110-111

Reading as Technological Revolution

This is the conundrum, the gorilla in the midst of any conversation about literature in contemporary culture, the question of dilution and refraction, of whether and how books matter, of the impact they can have. We talk about the need to read, about reading at risk, about reluctant readers (mostly preadolescent and adolescent boys such as Noah), but we seem unwilling to confront the fallout of one simple observation: literature doesn’t, can’t, have the influence it once did. For Kurt Vonnegut, the writer who made me want to be a writer, the culprit was television. “When I started out,” he recalled in 1997, “it was possible to make a living as a freelance writer of fiction, and live out of your mailbox, because it was still the golden age of magazines, and it looked as though that could go on forever. . . . Then television, with no malice whatsoever — just a better buy for advertisers — knocked the magazines out of business.” For new media reactionaries such as Lee Siegel and Andrew Keen, the problem is technology, the endless distractions of the Internet, the breakdown of authority in an age of blogs and Twitter, the collapse of narrative in a hyperlinked, multi-networked world. What this argument overlooks, of course, is that literary culture as we know it was the product of a technological revolution, one that began with Johannes Gutenberg’s invention of movable type. We take books and mass literacy for granted, but in reality, they are a recent iteration, going back not even a millennium. Less than four hundred years ago — barely a century and a half after Gutenberg — John Milton could still pride himself without exaggeration on having read every book then available, the entire history of written thought accessible to a single mind. When I was in college, a friend and I worked on a short film, never finished, in which Milton somehow found himself brought forward in time to lower Manhattan’s Strand bookstore, where the sheer volume of titles (“18 Miles of Books” is the store’s slogan) provoked a kind of mental overload, causing him to run screaming from the store out into Broadway, only to be struck down by a New York City bus.

— David L. Ulin, The Lost Art of Reading, p. 4-5

Discover Joy

I know there is poor and hideous suffering, and I’ve seen the hungry and the guns that go to war. I have lived pain, and my life can tell: I only deepen the wound of the world when I neglect to give thanks for early light dappled through leaves and the heavy perfume of wild roses in early July and the song of crickets on humid nights and the rivers that run and the stars that rise and the rain that falls and all the good things that a good God gives. Why would the world need more anger, more outrage? How does it save the world to reject unabashed joy when it is joy that saves us? Rejecting joy to stand in solidarity with the suffering doesn’t rescue the suffering. The converse does. The brave who focus on all things good and all things beautiful and all things true, even in the small, who give thanks for it and discover joy even in the here and now, they are the change agents who bring fullest Light to all the world. When we lay the soil of our hard lives open to the rain of grace and let joy penetrate our cracked and dry places, let joy soak into our broken skin and deep crevices, life grows. How can this not be the best thing for the world? For us? The clouds open when we mouth thanks.

— Ann Voskamp, One Thousand Gifts, p. 58

Caring for Ourselves

When we are caring for ourselves, we discover that there is actually plenty of time and energy to care for others and the world too. It is not negatively “selfish” to care for yourself brilliantly and exquisitely. In fact, as you fill your own well from the inside and tend to your self with great love, it will naturally and effortlessly “spill over” for others to appreciate and utilize.

When you see someone who radiantly glows from within, you are seeing a self-caring soul. This kind of self-care is a living example to be inspired by, so that you can live that way also.

— SARK, Glad No Matter What, p. 56

You Can Make Yourself Feel Better.

Just as you have the capacity to go indoors when you get cold, you can take yourself to another emotional climate if the one you’re in becomes uncomfortable. That means you can pull yourself out of a slump or a rage. You can reintroduce feelings even if you have spent a sizable portion of your life numb. And, if need be, you can fall out of love. Resilient people believe that they can — and should — make themselves feel better.

An essential part of being able to do this is knowing when you feel bad. Resilient people are aware — they know when something has pushed a button and they’ve ended up feeling trauma-y. And instead of just being adrift in a sea of emotions, they have the ability to say, ‘Hey, I’m in a bad mood, let me do something about it.’ They know when they’re off balance. And knowing that you’re off balance isn’t so scary when you’re resilient, because you have internal efficacy — the knowledge that you’ll be able to make yourself feel better.

Whether they need soothing and comfort, or some distraction, or a little physical activity, or rest, resilient survivors feel confident that they’ll be able to change their moods by taking action; they know that they can restore their natural equilibrium.

Indeed, what is remarkable about resilient survivors with regard to their sense of internal efficacy is that they not only believe they are at the helm of their own emotions, but they have a willingness to do something about it — to put on a different song, for instance, and to let their emotions be changed by it. They grab an emotion off of their Rx emotions list, and they do what they have to do to get themselves feeling that way. Taking positive action helps them move from defeated to empowered.

— Alicia Salzer, MD, Back to Life, p. 146-147

Be the Motion.

Dive into your passions, and you blow past the heartaches and excuses that keep you from feeling pore-tingling fun without guilt. When you have the life force humming, you’re not going through the motions anymore. You are the motion. You don’t have to restrain your enthusiasm. You can be as excited as you want to be, shout without fear of breaking decorum, feel at home in your own skin. You realize that celebrating is not something to save for milestones but sustenance you can indulge in every week.

Most of us live in the soulless flatlands of adulthood, resigned to the loss of eagerness and joyful abandon. But you can bring that spark back from the dead through the life force of participant experience. Your brain, it turns out, doesn’t want comfort, it wants engagement.

— Joe Robinson, Don’t Miss Your Life, p. 18-19

Showing Yourself

This self-representation is the answer to every problem in marriage. It stops needless finger pointing arguments because you’re first pointing fingers at yourself. It starts great discussions because great discussions are only possible when each side is being truthful — and encouraging the other to do the same. Self-representation makes for remarkable connection because it ensures that the two trying to connect are at least trying to be authentic and truthful. Finally, self-representation eradicates the villain of marital boredom, because the risk-filled journey of showing your cards never ends. As you continue to age and grow and change, so will your desires, your preferences, and your dreams. And no matter how long you live with one person, you can never fully eliminate the risk of having no guarantee how your spouse will respond when you take an I-step. Never. That’s awfully good news for those of us wanting to retain the mystery, the excitement, and yes, the intimacy of a deeper, lifelong, connection.

— Hal Edward Runkel, LMFT, ScreamFree Marriage, p. 220

The Work of Jesus

Jesus would not give himself to only a portion of his Father’s will, but to all of it. He would not pluck the spreading branches of the tree; he would lay the axe to its root. He would not deal with the mere effect of sin; he would destroy sin altogether. It would take time, but the tree would be dead at last — dead, and cast into the lake of fire. It would take time, but his Father had time enough and to spare. It would take courage and strength and self-denial and endurance; but his Father could give him all. It would cost pain of body and mind, agony and torture, but those he was ready to take on himself. It would cost him the vision of many sad and, to all but him, hopeless sights. He would have to see tears without wiping them, hear sighs without changing them into laughter, see the dead lie, and let them lie. He would have to see Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted. He must look on his brothers and sisters crying as children over their broken toys, and must not mend them. He must go on to the grave, and none of these know that thus he was setting all things right for them. His work must be one with and completing God’s creation and God’s history.

— George MacDonald, Knowing the Heart of God, p. 283