Scars

June 15, 2008 at 3:49 am ()

Scar: a mark left on something after damage of some kind.

That’s a simplified definition of a scar, the less technical version and the version that serves my purpose best. We all have scars. Some of us have physical scars left from…who knows what. Others of us have scars that are not so physically apparent, they are within us (and I’m not talking internal scars, I’m talking emotional).

I’ve often wondered…Why? Now, in obvious thinking we all wonder Why?, and I wonder it all the time about some of the most profound things and some of the funniest or stupidest. Lately though I’ve been wondering about scars and why they exist. What purpose could they possibly serve. I mean, God in all his power and in his grand planning and designing of us would make is so that when we heal, no matter what, we would heal completely leaving no mar. And yet, we have scars all too often from wounds, and then there’s always the memory of the event, even if our skin heals smooth, our bones seamless, we remember what happened and find ourselves massaging or touching said spot. Sometimes we can even feel it all over again, as if it had just happened.

Why I wonder, does this occur. Why remember it? Why have physical proof of it? What purpose could this possibly serve in the grander scheme of things? What is with emotional scaring? Why is it so hard to move on, or even truly impossible?

Why Scars?

In thinking about it I’ve come to some conclusions and thoughts.

I’ve had, and have, a good life. I have friends and family that love me and I’m pretty well off compared with many other people, however I have some very deep emotional scars. Scars that I have inflicted upon myself or allowed others to enact. I let the fester, I picked at them, and so when they finally did begin to heal they were ugly, they twisted me and made me into something that… something I didn’t want to be but couldn’t help being. The scars made it easy to think and act a certain way, they let me drift there with such ease, how could I deny the logic they supplied.

The scars allowed me to be cruel, callus, and evil. I enjoyed the suffering of others, I reveled in their disappointment, I laughed at their tears. I envisioned them at my mercy as if I were some kind of creature that were greater than them because my feelings were well under my control and I wasn’t as vulnerable as they. I can’t tell you how often I saw them in pain in my mind and even their deaths either at my hands or someone else as I watched with a delightful smile on my face. The scars warped my very being, they clouded my vision, they slanted my walk so that I couldn’t walk a straight path. And the saddest part of it all was that I enjoyed it, I was content because the pain the scars inflicted upon me was dulled by these actions, these thoughts and these desires. It’s amazing what Hate can do, it’s like a drug, it numbs you from everything else in the world. With Hate there’s no room for anything else. The scars allowed Hate to flourish.

Why? Why scars? Why allow these things to happen when the consequence would be something so horrific, so not like God at all. I was an abomination. I lies through my teeth and smiled as people struggled. I pretended to be a friend and laughed and mocked behind their backs. I made a feign of helping all the while hoping they would just completely fall apart.

After a long life of living with these scars, doing my best to ignore them and press on with my version of life God intervened because I asked him to long ago and still made a pretense of doing so even though I didn’t really believe in him or want his help.

God lead me on my way to a better way than avoiding the scars, he let me confront them. He made me look into a mirror that didn’t hold back what I really was, I saw all the scars,  I saw how ugly I was and I didn’t like it so I began to strive to change. Of course I went about it the wrong way at first, I tried doing it my way and not Gods, that lead me nowhere. After my first failed try I began to do things his way and everything started to get better.

But I still had the scars. I thought that if I did things God’s way, if I looked to him and let him take the lead the scars would be healed and vanish, but he left them. They healed better of course, they were no longer festering and gorey, they were that pinkish red color that most scars are. And so having healed and begun a new path I began to be angry once more because I didn’t understand why these scars were still here, why did they still feel fresh and why did they still compel me to go the way of Hate.

Recently I’ve come to a realization. What these scars compel me to do, and compel me to feel, are the very reason why they were left. If these things, feeling and deisres, were to simply vanish as if God were some kind of feel good pill or shot then God would simply become a drug much like Hate had become a drug. I would simply be trading one habbit, one addiction, for another. God is not a drug, as one of my friends once said, “God isn’t Prozac”.

Yes, God makes you feel better, he takes away a lot of pain that would otherwise exist and continue to dog you but he’s not a magic pill that makes the pains of the world go away. He allows you to face it with a greater defense. He brings you the strength to stand against something you otherwise though you couldn’t.

God left my scars, to remind me of what I was, what I had enjoyed and partaken in. NO he did not leave them to say, “See what you were without me! Aren’t you so glad you have me now!” (though yes there is a little of that in there in a non spiteful way). He left them because he doesn’t just come along and shield you from the world, he allows you to face it.

My scars are here to stay. They will never leave and I fear, yet understand, they will always be something I must fight against and shy away from lest they consume me again. But with God at my side the scars are dull, they mean little. I have something greater. God brings something better than what Hate did. The scars and the Hate merely brought a fog to my world. God lights it up and points the way even though it may be hard and rough.

I still don’t fully understand scars. Are they a helping hand from God, meant to help show the way? To say that if you do what you did before again something similar or worse will happen? Perhaps. Maybe in the long time we have been alive we have warped what he made as a helping tool. We often do that.

I suppose this is what my scars are for, though I’m sure God would have greatly prefered that I didn’t have them at all, and I would had I listened to him from the beginning. However I am human, and as such I am prone to mistakes.

Why Scars? I’m not fully sure, but I’ll always appreciate that maybe now I can prevent scars as long as I follow my Lord.

 

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Customer Service Christ

January 19, 2008 at 6:43 pm ()

In my travels I came upon a building of assembly to the Lord God. I’ve seen many of these buildings, some were remarkably large and home to some who were faithful and many who simply came, I’ve seen small buildings with few people but all with great conviction, I’ve seen medium that had conviction and hypocrisy. Nothing had even struck me, it was the way of the world but when I came upon this building it struck me as odd and unique. The building was quite large and very haphazard. I couldn’t tell you how big the building was, it was much like a mall and there was no uniform architecture. Some parts of the building were ornate, much like the churches of the past pointy and complicated, some parts were simple and “church” like, some parts looked of an office building and still others were dreary and plain very unappealing. Over the main entrance (for each part had its own entrance but there was a central one much like a mall would have) was a great massive neon sign that proclaimed this building was the “church” of the Customer Service Christ. I had never heard of this before and my interest was peaked so I walked through the massive parking lot filled with many types of cars or bikes or whatever a person may have used for transportation.
 
I entered through the swinging glass doors and immediately I saw and understood about the name of this building or assembly. What would have been a welcome center in any other building was a customer service desk, or more appropriately customer service department.
 
There were three sections to the great desk that took up the center of the great room. The one to the far left was labeled Complaints and there was a great line for this section, it twisted and turned and zigged and zagged all over doing it’s best to make sure people could get by and the line wouldn’t hinder others. The center section was labeled Suggestions and this line was equally long and went just as many directions. The third section was labeled Questions and in this line there were none, the man sitting in this section seemed quite bored and was just twiddling his thumbs.I approached as close as I could to the Complaints section and listened to what people had to say.“Hello, what’s your complaint?” the desk worker asked politely.
 
“Yeah. Last time I came here I sat in the back row in the center in the middle of the pew and this time some one else was sitting there. I like that seat. I don’t like it when people sit where they don’t belong.” This was one man.
 
“Yes, when we sing there’s a woman near the front that sings louder than me. I’m a much better singer than she is. I don’t like people who overshadow those that are better.” One lady said.“Um, the sermons are much too long. It should only be 30 minutes tops, 45 minutes is much to long. I don’t like people taking up my valuable time.”Still more people came. 
 
The building is too cold.
 
The building is too hot.
 
Too many old songs sung.
 
Too many new songs sung.
 
I stood and listened for a while and I heard so many complaints that contradicted each other. So many complaints that to me seemed so trivial but I supposed that everyone was entitled to their own opinion about things.
 
I tired of listening to the complaints of unsettled people so I finagled my way over and listened in on the line for Suggestions.
 
The person working at this section sat in front of a very large stack of paper. To his left was a great stack ridiculously high that was written on and on his right there was another ridiculously high stack of blank paper and always in front of him there was a sheet of paper and in his hand a pen. I could see clearly that his hands were calloused and ink stained (he apparently did this a lot).
 
I watched and listened as a boy of about sixteen came up to the desk.
 
“What’s your suggestion?” The man asked without looking up. His pen was poised and he just seemed ready to get things over with.
 
“Um, I think we should have more kinds of donut choices in the morning. I’m tired of glazed.”
 
The man scribbled down the suggestion and put it onto the large stack to his left. “Thank you.” He mumbled with little sincerity.
 
The boy left and a woman walked up.
 
“Suggestion?” The man asked.(I noticed the entire time I watched that the man never looked up, he wasn’t personally involved in the process, he was just simply doing his job.)
 
“We need to have a child care service that’s available 24hrs a day, seven days a week. It’s such a hassle having to work around their schedule.
 
”“Thank you.”
 
Next
 
There should be a coffee shop in the lobby.
 
We should have a bigger ban with more instruments.
 
We should only have a guitarist.
 
We shouldn’t have a band. 
 
We should have adds for members businesses on the projection screen.
 
We should get rid of the projection screen.
 
We should this, we should that…Once again I was hearing contradictions. One person wants this, another that. Some times the two sides were right next to each other in line and I would be lying if I said it wasn’t a bit entertaining to see the looks on their faces as they heard each other.
 
I quickly became tired of watching and listening and decided to move off to the side. I sat in a very comfy chair near the entrance and thought for a while and continued to spy a bit on the two lines and the empty line.
 
Once in a while in the complaint line there came shouts and language that I didn’t expect to hear in a building of assembly or even from the lips of a believer but after an hour I had begun to tune it out. Finally I rose from the chair and walked over to the section labeled Questions. The carpet leading up to it seemed new, as if no one had ever walked upon it. The other sections carpet was well worn and there were obvious ruts where people shuffled their feet or dug their toes in. I supposed that truthfully I was the first to approach the desk of Questions.“’Scuse me. I have a question.” I said.The man who had been sitting, his feet propped up on the desk and his thumbs hurrying around each other and his eyes closed suddenly opened his eyes and fell back in his chair onto the floor.
 
I peered over the desk at the man as he clumsily climbed to his knees and looked up at me. “What’?” He asked.
 
“I have a question.” I stated again.
 
The man got to his feet, grabbed his chair and slowly lowered himself down all the while looking at me with wondering eyes. “Ok.” He voice was filled with disbelief.
 
“What’s the point of all this?”
The man’s eyes darted around as if searching for an answer from somewhere, thinking the answer would be floating in neon sign form somewhere around his head. “What’s the point of what?” the man asked trying to clarify.
 
“This.” I gestured around the great customer service department.
 
“Oh, uh…this is so that everyone can be comfortable at church. We want everyone to be happy and come back.”
 
The name of the building made sense to me greatly now. “But, it’s impossible to please everyone. Just from the little I’ve heard everyone wants something different and many want opposite things, but what mystifies me the most is God hasn’t even been mentioned. Why do these people come here?” I looked at the man truly desiring an answer.
 
“Um…” The man once again began looking for the neon answer sign.
 
Suddenly I had the answer. It made perfect sense. The name of the building gave it away. The customer service department made it crystal clear. “They’re here for themselves.” I said. “They’re here because they can get what they want out of God, out of what you call church.”The man’s eyes widened and then saddened.“I see.” I said sadly. “This place is for the Customer, not for the Provider. Is that right?” I looked to the man.
 
He nodded slowly. “We are the Church of the Customer Service Christ. We are here to please the people.”
 
I sighed heavily. I wasn’t a genius, I didn’t really consider myself that wise but I understood that Christ, God, had not been about Customer Service. “Listen.” I said. “I’ve got to get going. I don’t really have a while lot of time to spend waiting in the Complaints and Suggestions lines so I’m just going to say this to you and hope that you are able to relay it to them.”
 
The man nodded and listened intently.
 
“My complaint is that this place is no a place of God, there’s no love here, this is no Church, I don’t like those that claim to be what they aren’t. And my suggestion is that you choose a way of doing things, a way of believing and go with it or you are destined to fall. Its not about how many people you have in the seats, it’s about what you are here for.”
 
The man nodded, having understood what I’d said and promising that he would tell the others. Somehow I thought that they wouldn’t listen and this building would continue to grow in size and have many more people coming to it. But I’d said my peace and left continuing on my travels, hoping beyond hope that maybe they would change, but knowing in my heart that they would never change until they stopped thinking about themselves and began thinking about God.

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