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“rebel” pastor mark driscoll “sees things”

Let me preface this by saying unequivocally that I can’t stand this guy.

The video below features Mark Driscoll, pastor of Mars Hill Church in Seattle, part of the whole “young, restless, and Reformed” contingent in Christendom today. He’s also “buds” with Baldy of the FOC — which is currently imploding, by the way, with The Washington Post currently looking into child molestation coverups, oops — and, in my opinion, just a teensy bit full of himself. Others think he’s “edgy” and “real.” I’ve watched a number of his sermons on YouTube and, well, I find him a spiritual bully and an intellectual lightweight.

(Not that I’m trying to influence your thoughts here or anything.)

Actually, I don’t need to. This video speaks for itself. Watch it and see my comments below.

~ First of all, Slappy, I’m glad you “see things.” I see a pastor/alleged grown man in a Mickey Mouse t-shirt is what I see.

~ Really, I have no problem with “the gift of discernment.” I understand that sometimes people see things in the spiritual realm. I believe that too. But …. part of the gift of discernment — one would assume — is using it with discernment which you clearly don’t do. I mean, calling a woman out on her adultery in front of her husband? Who does that? A d-bag, that’s who. Discernment would demand that you pull this woman aside and privately tell her your whole “I see naked people” vision. Obviously, you got off on exposing and humiliating this woman in front of her husband, but you seem completely unable to see that you humiliated the husband too. He heard these words from you, his pastor, not his wife, when it’s her job to tell him, not yours. Such a revelation is between the husband and wife and should have nothing to do with you. I mean, this just seems like Relationships 101 to me.

~ At one point you said — in referring to things one might “see” — “Don’t assume it’s true.” So that’s what you did in the above scenario, right? And that’s what you did when you said to one person, “You don’t know this but you were abused as a child,” right? Look. Just because you “see things” doesn’t mean they’re always correct nor does it mean that you are the person who should share them nor does it mean that you should share them the very instant you “see” them. Why not pray for the Holy Spirit to reveal things or to shake someone’s conscience or whatever? Why not pray about if/when you’re supposed to share what you think you saw? Why is it your job to do so except that you get off on the perceived power of it? You get your rocks off by Jesus showing you things that you believe he’s not showing anyone else. Quit doing Jesus’ job.

~ What if what you saw isn’t, in fact, true and you put that idea in someone’s head? “You don’t know this, but you were molested as a kid.” What if that’s actually NOT true? How cruel is that? How reckless? To plant a false seed in someone’s psyche?

~ And, yes, when confronted with allegations of molest, most molesters just freely and instantly admit it, like grandpa in your example. Yeah. That happens ALL the time. I totally believe that part.

~ About the woman with the physically abusive husband. So, did you call the cops? Sure, you called the dude into your office so you could expose him, but did you call the cops? Did you call the cops about any of these things? These rapes and abuses and molestations you “see”? You’re more than willing to blurt it out in an exercise of your spiritual power and “knowledge,” but what about involving the authorities? Or would that be too much of an abdication of your power to involve the secular legal powers? Wouldn’t want to do that now, would we?

Sickening.

(Also, Mark Driscoll: I don’t like your eyes. There’s something cold and off about them. I “see” things about you because of them.)

And here I thought I’d lost my crankypants, but they’re back, babeee, and tight as ever.

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mark twain: letters from the earth

I’ve talked twice on this blog about sex in heaven. (So far.) I’ve rattled that cage, pissed people off, gotten emails from prudey-toots. I continue to say: I believe there will be sex in heaven or at least that possibility. (And I mean “intercourse” not gender when I use that word, although obviously, there will be gender, too. Unless you’re that dude who wrote me saying he’d be eyes and a mouth. Then you’ll be like a little kid’s drawing for all eternity and that’s your problem, Crackie, not mine.)

I see no reason why there won’t be or at least couldn’t be sex in heaven. Actually, I have more to say on this issue and I’m working on another post about it, but for now, I’ll just let Mark Twain do the talking for me.

Now Twain himself clearly had a somewhat erratic and unreconciled relationship with faith and organized religion, but I so appreciate his humor and honesty about it all.

Below is Twain’s “Letters from the Earth II.” It’s about heaven and touches on the topic of sex in heaven. While I don’t agree with all of it and some of it is just a teeeensie bit racist, I love the way his mind just reaches out and clubs you and forces you to deal with what he’s saying. Thank you, Mark Twain! And if you don’t laugh out loud at some of this, I will give you your money back.

“I have told you nothing about man that is not true.” You must pardon me if I repeat that remark now and then in these letters; I want you to take seriously the things I am telling you, and I feel that if I were in your place and you in mine, I should need that reminder from time to time, to keep my credulity from flagging.

For there is nothing about man that is not strange to an immortal. He looks at nothing as we look at it, his sense of proportion is quite different from ours, and his sense of values is so widely divergent from ours, that with all our large intellectual powers it is not likely that even the most gifted among us would ever be quite able to understand it.

For instance, take this sample: he has imagined a heaven, and has left entirely out of it the supremest of all his delights, the one ecstasy that stands first and foremost in the heart of every individual of his race — and of ours — sexual intercourse!

It is as if a lost and perishing person in a roasting desert should be told by a rescuer he might choose and have all longed-for things but one, and he should elect to leave out water!

His heaven is like himself: strange, interesting, astonishing, grotesque. I give you my word, it has not a single feature in it that he actually values. It consists — utterly and entirely — of diversions which he cares next to nothing about, here in the earth, yet is quite sure he will like them in heaven. Isn’t it curious? Isn’t it interesting? You must not think I am exaggerating, for it is not so. I will give you details.

Most men do not sing, most men cannot sing, most men will not stay when others are singing if it be continued more than two hours. Note that.

Only about two men in a hundred can play upon a musical instrument, and not four in a hundred have any wish to learn how. Set that down.

Many men pray, not many of them like to do it. A few pray long, the others make a short cut.

More men go to church than want to.

To forty-nine men in fifty the Sabbath Day is a dreary, dreary bore.

Of all the men in a church on a Sunday, two-thirds are tired when the service is half over, and the rest before it is finished.

The gladdest moment for all of them is when the preacher uplifts his hands for the benediction. You can hear the soft rustle of relief that sweeps the house, and you recognize that it is eloquent with gratitude.

All nations look down upon all other nations.

All nations dislike all other nations.

All white nations despise all colored nations, of whatever hue, and oppress them when they can.

White men will not associate with “niggers,” nor marry them.

They will not allow them in their schools and churches.

All the world hates the Jew, and will not endure him except when he is rich.

I ask you to note all those particulars.

Further. All sane people detest noise.

All people, sane or insane, like to have variety in their life. Monotony quickly wearies them.

Every man, according to the mental equipment that has fallen to his share, exercises his intellect constantly, ceaselessly, and this exercise makes up a vast and valued and essential part of his life. The lowest intellect, like the highest, possesses a skill of some kind and takes a keen pleasure in testing it, proving it, perfecting it. The urchin who is his comrade’s superior in games is as diligent and as enthusiastic in his practice as are the sculptor, the painter, the pianist, the mathematician and the rest. Not one of them could be happy if his talent were put under an interdict.

Now then, you have the facts. You know what the human race enjoys, and what it doesn’t enjoy. It has invented a heaven out of its own head, all by itself: guess what it is like! In fifteen hundred eternities you couldn’t do it. The ablest mind known to you or me in fifty million aeons couldn’t do it. Very well, I will tell you about it.

1. First of all, I recall to your attention the extraordinary fact with which I began. To wit, that the human being, like the immortals, naturally places sexual intercourse far and away above all other joys — yet he has left it out of his heaven! The very thought of it excites him; opportunity sets him wild; in this state he will risk life, reputation, everything — even his queer heaven itself — to make good that opportunity and ride it to the overwhelming climax. From youth to middle age all men and all women prize copulation above all other pleasures combined, yet it is actually as I have said: it is not in their heaven; prayer takes its place.

They prize it thus highly; yet, like all their so-called “boons,” it is a poor thing. At its very best and longest the act is brief beyond imagination — the imagination of an immortal, I mean. In the matter of repetition the man is limited — oh, quite beyond immortal conception. We who continue the act and its supremest ecstasies unbroken and without withdrawal for centuries, will never be able to understand or adequately pity the awful poverty of these people in that rich gift which, possessed as we possess it, makes all other possessions trivial and not worth the trouble of invoicing.

2. In man’s heaven everybody sings! The man who did not sing on earth sings there; the man who could not sing on earth is able to do it there. The universal singing is not casual, not occasional, not relieved by intervals of quiet; it goes on, all day long, and every day, during a stretch of twelve hours. And everybody stays; whereas in the earth the place would be empty in two hours. The singing is of hymns alone. Nay, it is of one hymn alone. The words are always the same, in number they are only about a dozen, there is no rhyme, there is no poetry: “Hosannah, hosannah, hosannah, Lord God of Sabaoth, ‘rah! ‘rah! ‘rah! siss! — boom! … a-a-ah!”

3. Meantime, every person is playing on a harp — those millions and millions! — whereas not more than twenty in the thousand of them could play an instrument in the earth, or ever wanted to.

Consider the deafening hurricane of sound — millions and millions of voices screaming at once and millions and millions of harps gritting their teeth at the same time! I ask you: is it hideous, is it odious, is it horrible?

Consider further: it is a praise service; a service of compliment, of flattery, of adulation! Do you ask who it is that is willing to endure this strange compliment, this insane compliment; and who not only endures it, but likes it, enjoys it, requires if, commands it? Hold your breath!

It is God! This race’s god, I mean. He sits on his throne, attended by his four and twenty elders and some other dignitaries pertaining to his court, and looks out over his miles and miles of tempestuous worshipers, and smiles, and purrs, and nods his satisfaction northward, eastward, southward; as quaint and nave a spectacle as has yet been imagined in this universe, I take it.

It is easy to see that the inventor of the heavens did not originate the idea, but copied it from the show-ceremonies of some sorry little sovereign State up in the back settlements of the Orient somewhere.

All sane white people hate noise; yet they have tranquilly accepted this kind of heaven — without thinking, without reflection, without examination — and they actually want to go to it! Profoundly devout old gray-headed men put in a large part of their time dreaming of the happy day when they will lay down the cares of this life and enter into the joys of that place. Yet you can see how unreal it is to them, and how little it takes a grip upon them as being fact, for they make no practical preparation for the great change: you never see one of them with a harp, you never hear one of them sing.

As you have seen, that singular show is a service of praise: praise by hymn, praise by prostration. It takes the place of “church.” Now then, in the earth these people cannot stand much church — an hour and a quarter is the limit, and they draw the line at once a week. That is to say, Sunday. One day in seven; and even then they do not look forward to it with longing. And so — consider what their heaven provides for them: “church” that lasts forever, and a Sabbath that has no end! They quickly weary of this brief hebdomadal Sabbath here, yet they long for that eternal one; they dream of it, they talk about it, they think they think they are going to enjoy it — with all their simple hearts they think they think they are going to be happy in it!

It is because they do not think at all; they only think they think. Whereas they can’t think; not two human beings in ten thousand have anything to think with. And as to imagination — oh, well, look at their heaven! They accept it, they approve it, they admire it. That gives you their intellectual measure.

4. The inventor of their heaven empties into it all the nations of the earth, in one common jumble. All are on an equality absolute, no one of them ranking another; they have to be “brothers”; they have to mix together, pray together, harp together, hosannah together — whites, niggers, Jews, everybody — there’s no distinction. Here in the earth all nations hate each other, and every one of them hates the Jew. Yet every pious person adores that heaven and wants to get into it. He really does. And when he is in a holy rapture he thinks he thinks that if he were only there he would take all the populace to his heart, and hug, and hug, and hug!

He is a marvel — man is! I would I knew who invented him.

5. Every man in the earth possesses some share of intellect, large or small; and be it large or be it small he takes pride in it. Also his heart swells at mention of the names of the majestic intellectual chiefs of his race, and he loves the tale of their splendid achievements. For he is of their blood, and in honoring themselves they have honored him. Lo, what the mind of man can do! he cries, and calls the roll of the illustrious of all ages; and points to the imperishable literatures they have given to the world, and the mechanical wonders they have invented, and the glories wherewith they have clothed science and the arts; and to them he uncovers as to kings, and gives to them the profoundest homage, and the sincerest, his exultant heart can furnish — thus exalting intellect above all things else in the world, and enthroning it there under the arching skies in a supremacy unapproachable. And then he contrived a heaven that hasn’t a rag of intellectuality in it anywhere!

Is it odd, is it curious, is it puzzling? It is exactly as I have said, incredible as it may sound. This sincere adorer of intellect and prodigal rewarder of its mighty services here in the earth has invented a religion and a heaven which pay no compliments to intellect, offer it no distinctions, fling it no largess: in fact, never even mention it.

By this time you will have noticed that the human being’s heaven has been thought out and constructed upon an absolute definite plan; and that this plan is, that it shall contain, in labored detail, each and every imaginable thing that is repulsive to a man, and not a single thing he likes!

Very well, the further we proceed the more will this curious fact be apparent.

Make a note of it: in man’s heaven there are no exercises for the intellect, nothing for it to live upon. It would rot there in a year — rot and stink. Rot and stink — and at that stage become holy. A blessed thing: for only the holy can stand the joys of that bedlam.

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baldy’s super bowl viewing tips

Last year, Ol’ Baldy, head of the FOC, posted some super duper helpful Super Bowl viewing tips to keep the hounds of heathenism at bay while we watch this annual pride and lust fest.

Check it out.

My favorite suggestion? To avoid the temptation to lust during the naughty commercials or half-time show, turn the channel quick like a bunny to C-SPAN.

“Turning to C-SPAN will ensure that conversation will take place,” says Baldy.

I’m sure that’s true. Everyone will whisper about what a lame Super Bowl party you’re throwing.

I know it’s too late now since the game is over, but at least you can feel some retroactive guilt about the whole thing, pippa.

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i refuse

I refuse to let others’ treatment of me be the setpoint for what I think I’m worth.

Last night, out of the blue, I said that to MB, and he said, “Finally. Thank God.”

For various reasons, all the events of last year and the actions of The Outing Person did a real number on my psyche. I haven’t talked about it here because it’s too damn embarrassing, frankly, how badly it all messed with me. It was a cumulative effect for me of too many of the same kinds of things over too many years. That situation was a kind of last straw. I became this open wound that couldn’t be touched or healed. I faked my way through everything, even this blog. I did my schoolwork and that was it. On typical days, I rarely went outside of the house and I rarely spoke to others besides MB. That’s the truth. There were family things — many things — that required my presence and my care, which I tried to give, but I just didn’t have enough. Or I felt like I didn’t have enough.

For some reason, the weight of all the crap from Christians over the last decade finally came crashing and crushing down on me and left me feeling — pardon me — like a piece of shit.

But this year I renounce that. I rebuke it. I realize now that all of these things — these same types of things for YEARS — are spiritual attacks. And I’ve just allowed them. I haven’t fought them. By that, I’m not saying I brought them on. No. I’m saying that on some level, once they happened, I simply believed I deserved it. I believed I deserved to be treated as if I’m worth only gossip and judgment. That I deserved to be treated as if my humanity was somehow less than that of others. That I didn’t matter so neither did my hurts and wounds. That I wasn’t even worth being spoken to. Or worth an apology. At the bottom of it all, I believed I was simply the lowest thing, the least thing — nothing.

When that enemy of our souls whispered to me over and over that I was a piece of crap, I was weak and weightless and simply said “You’re right. I agree.” It became hypnotic. The repetition of that lie.

I repeated his mantra, told myself “I am nothing,” and spent an entire year of my life living that lie. I let that enemy of my soul, my heart, my spirit paralyze me. The weight of the lies became the most substantive thing about me. I imagine he watched, triumphant, as one by one, I let myself become each and every one of those lies.

But not anymore. Not anymore. The spiritual disabilities of others are not my responsibility. I will not let them paralyze me anymore as if they’re mine. I will not let them own me anymore. They are not mine. They are not mine. That’s a lie straight from the pit.

What comes from the pit needs to back to the pit. That’s its home. That’s where it belongs.

I am not your home.

I am not your home.

I refuse to believe the lies anymore. I will fight you with whatever I have.

Because I refuse. I refuse.

I refuse to let others’ treatment of me be the setpoint for what I think I’m worth.

I REFUSE.

So my anthem for 2011.

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oh, brother

Here’s a snippet from a 2005 blog post written by Baldy, big shiny “head” of the FOC. In part of it, he quotes from an article written by his buddy “Al” — Albert Mohler, president of the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary. The rest of it is ol’ Baldy himself.

This is the attitude in the FOC, pippa. A lot of insecure men posturing about how to be men. (Italics mine.)

And finally Al’s “President’s Journal” column titled “The Boy Problem, Then and Now” is an insightful summation of Terrence Moore’s essay, “Wimps and Barbarians: The Sons of Murphy Brown.” Here’s a great quote from Al’s column:

“Wimps, on the other hand, look to women for emotional support,

(This is wimpy? Isn’t this …… sorta normal?)

consider girlfriends to be conversational partners

(See the patriarchy rearing its ugly insecure head, pippa? You — the godly and non-wimpy man — cannot “partner” with a woman in conversation. She is subordinate to you in even basic conversation)

and look to women for pity.”

(I cannot think of any guy I’ve known — wimpy and non — who has ever looked to me for pity)

Don’t want to be one of those!

(God forbid! Buncha hellbound nancies!)

Somehow this reminded me of a rule I want us to adopt for our blog. No smiley faces allowed! (No way! That sucks! :-)) Real men do not use smiley faces on e-mails! (Oh, I agree! Emails are not the place for those! My real man only uses emoticons — and exclamation points — during sex! :-)) This is fine for the ladies, (with whom we will not partner in a conversational way! :-)) but not the men. Real men communicate humor 🙂 effectively without having to use a smiley 🙂 face and real men can discern the presence of genuine humor 🙂 without seeing a smiley 🙂 face. So let our blog be free from all wimp-like communication! ( 🙂 🙂 :-))

You know, Baldy, you seem overly concerned about appearing to be a wimp. Real men — and I’m not one, granted, so I can only base this on razor sharp perception 🙂 — don’t concern themselves with whether they’re a wimp. They’re too busy being men.

Just a short but piercing shriek of overcompensation here. Not to mention misogyny.

Ugh.

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“bleatings”? “bleatings”??

I realize I sound church weary on this blog lately. I am church weary, but church weariness does not equate with Jesus weariness. For me, anyway. I’m perfectly capable of separating Jesus from what his church has become. It’s not his fault. If anything, my disappointment with the screwed-up institutional church/corporation/cash cow/Amway meeting makes Jesus more essential to me, more real in contrast to the myriad ways we’ve managed to muck up the church that is meant to be his hands and ruined the reputation we bear when we carry the name “Christian.”

Jesus has staked his very reputation on us and — ta daaaa! — everyone hates us and Jesus, too.

So, honestly, he’s either God with a much huger agenda than we can possibly see or know, or yes, he’s patently insane. (Stealing from C.S.) Why put yourself through that unless there’s something much bigger at work? I mean, I hate it when people hate me. And I really hate it when people hate me (or judge me) based on a misrepresentation of who I am (phone call for “Outing” Person). Does Jesus feel any different?

Further contributing to my church weariness are things like the blog post below, an example of the musings of the senior pastor of Maybe Church. Like everyone we encountered at Maybe Church, Whitey (as MB and I called him) was — clearly — a “really fun guy.” He wore ill-fitting Hawaiian shirts and nothing proves you’re a “fun” Christian more than ill-fitting Hawaiian shirts. I mean, actual fun wouldn’t prove it. No. To FOCers, any actual fun is probably just good ol’ fashioned sin, Crackie, and you need to check your hearts and repent, mkay? Whitey was Ivy-league educated (unlike most FOC pastors), and I might have been impressed by this fact if his sermons weren’t always dumbed down to accommodate the 11 year olds forced to sit in the audience because there was no Sunday school for kids 6th grade and above. He sounded exactly like John Lithgow except for the never-making-me-laugh part. MB and I wrote notes during his sermons like 3rd graders with ADD because his sermons were about as intellectually challenging as the hidden pictures in Highlights Magazine. (Actually, I would have much preferred that.) He was dry, rather pedantic. Then again, I know that no one will live up to the intellect and passion of our longtime pastor, now retired. No one has.

But what comes across even more in Whitey’s writing than it did in person is his condescension. I didn’t necessarily get that vibe from him in person, but reading this post, I definitely do. It’s indicative of the superiority FOC pastors are groomed to believe they possess. I find it so offensive. He has a whole series of these on his blog from earlier this year, all with the title “Bleatings from the Sheep.”

I could pinpoint certain things, but I want to see if others zero in on the same things I did.

(I know it’s terrible blog etiquette to copy and paste a whole post with no link, but you know I have my reasons. Under normal circumstances, I would never do this, but this place is abusive, subtly so, which makes it more dangerous, and it’s just ruining thousands of people’s lives. Thank God MB and I were not sucked in.)

Here it is:

Bleatings from the Sheep: Respect for the People

It is one thing to be charged with leading the church in the stead of Christ, it is another to do it with humility. One of the temptations of being the primary voice of preaching is to begin to think of the people I serve as resistant. I become more focused on their sins than their graces. I begin to think I know a lot and they do not. Bonhoeffer says that pastors are not called to be in partnership with the devil, as accusers of the brothers. That hits home!

Here is another one of those simple comments that was packed with meaning.

We were in the middle of some major changes in the by-laws of the church. I had preached through the biblical reasons and had held some Q and A sessions with people. But I started to hear second hand reports that some were resistant.

I was tempted to harsh judgments on one hand, and to self-doubt on the other. I wondered why sheep were so stupid. I wondered if I was called to be a shepherd — maybe I should quit, or find another flock that would show greater respect for me.

A few wiser men in the church (and there is a lesson in itself — these were laymen, without my education and calling, but respected for godliness) suggested we slow down the process. They suggested that people need time to absorb change.

I yielded to them reluctantly. I wanted to see this as an authority and submission issue. After all, the case was clear from Scripture and I was called to bring Scripture to bear on people’s lives. They said people wanted to believe the Bible and follow it but they had heard other teaching over the years that was different than mine and they needed to weigh it out. I assured them that the other teaching was wrong. They agreed, but insisted we be patient.

We ended up with some more time for people to discuss these ideas. Some of these key leaders went out among the people and asked questions and listened and served folks. The process took longer than expected and I was growing impatient, discouraged, angry.

Then a couple I greatly loved came to see me. They told me they had concerns with this new direction. They told me they had weighed it out and agreed with what I taught but they still had reservations. They wanted to talk. We did, at length. I labored at listening, not defending. I sought to get into their heads and hearts. My counselors words shaped my responses.

What was interesting was at the end of the conversation, they said they would support this direction. They still had questions, but they would follow this plan. Then they parted with these words, “Thank you for respecting us.”

This couple was in their 70’s and had seen lots of pastoral leadership over the years. Those words were not throw away words. They meant it. It seemed that had experienced pastoral oversight that was disrespectful, impatient, overbearing, dismissive of the people. In that conversation, they sensed I wanted to hear their concerns and would not dismiss them. They were respected.

It became a good conversation with others in oversight — do people sense we respect them? love them? cherish them? or do they think I treat them like idiots? obstacles? resistant?

How easy it is to think of the people I serve as obstacles to what God wants to do — and to treat them with disrespect. They are not obstacles. They are God’s redeemed people, my brothers and sisters, as slow to change as I am. Does God drive his sheep — does God use a cattle prod? I wanted to serve them as my Savior served me — with respect for their persons. Thank God for another sheep bleating!

Oh, how I miss him.

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the “modesty survey”

I’ve been meaning to link to this for months now — the almost laughable “Modesty Survey” brought to you by “The Rebelution,” a Christian youth movement created by twin brothers and rising stars in the Family of Churches (FOC) that “Maybe Church” is a part of.

First, let me go through how to navigate that site. It’s a bit counterintuitive, I think. Click on that link. It will take you to the results page. You will see a box that says “Select a Category.” Choose a category that interests you. In the right portion of that same box, some modesty “assertions” — for lack of a better way to say it — will appear. The boys/men who take the survey are asked to what extent they agree or disagree with the given assertion. Make sense? If you click on a statement, it will give you the results for that specific statement. Scroll down to click on a link to a photo of the item featured in the statement. (Not all have photos.) Scroll down further to see the chart with the agree/disagree percentages and even further to read some of the boys’/men’s feedback. That’s the meat of it to me. What the guys are saying. Some of it is so asinine, I can’t deal with it. But more on that later.

Now if you’re a female in the FOC, there are certain standards of modesty expected of you. Cover the boobins. But don’t follow their outline too closely. Watch out for bare shoulders. They might be a “stumbling block” for your “brothers.” Legs are a problem. And your butt. Oh, also your stomach. And bra straps. And purse straps that you wear across your chest. Don’t stretch in front of men. Or touch your hair. Watch the way you walk. And stand. Basically, when you’re around men, don’t be a woman. Because if the men around you lust after you, it is, naturally, your fault. They can’t help it, poor menfolk. Their thought processes are not their own. Duh. Sure, we believe in male headship, in patriarchy, but we apparently also believe that men are powerless at the sight of, say, a V-neck sweater. Nonetheless, women must submit unquestioningly to these weaklings with no control over their thoughts.

The weird thing about these standards is that they’re not put out there as hard and fast rules. No, of course not. It’s more subtle than that. The head of the FOC has a modesty sermon that he delivers — in mixed company to up the ick factor here — where the emphasis is on a woman’s heart, her motives and her intentions in her dress. Whom is she dressing to please? Man or God? Women need to check their hearts, he says. (Something I don’t disagree with in principle. It’s how far it’s taken that I have a huge problem with.) Wives need to run wardrobe purchases past their husbands. Daughters need to ask dad if what they’re wearing is appropriate. Uhm, ew. (Daddy, does this show my boobs too much?) But don’t worry if you forget to do those things because, eventually, if someone at your local FOC — usually a woman — decides she doesn’t approve of what you’re wearing, she’ll confront you. In love, of course.

I remember a tiny incident during our brief foray into paranoia at Maybe Church. Well, at the time I thought it was tiny, but now I’m not so sure. The lady that kept trying to befriend me, the curly-haired lady, came up to me one morning before the service and made a big fuss over what I was wearing — an Indian-style tunic over jeans. At the time I thought she was complimenting it because she genuinely liked it, but now, given what I’ve learned about the FOC, I can’t help but wonder if she was doing a bit of subtle positive reinforcement. “Yes. Thisssss is the kind of thing you should be wearing. Things that cover what you’ve got. For the menfolk.” I think the excessive praise was for “getting it right” one week out of the 16 we were there. (Widdle whore.)

Look. I don’t dress like a tramp. I’m modest by nature, actually, and spent years — years — ashamed of my God-given shape. I covered myself up, wore baggy clothing so no one could see that, well, my basic body shape was …. sexy. To this day, I wear loose clothing around my dad because I don’t want him to be uncomfortable with my breasts. I swear, it’s true. I don’t want him to think of me even having any particular kind of body in any particular arrangement or location because I know he needs to think certain things about me even now, one of them being that my body consists of everything in general but nothing in particular. I was raised to think my form was problematic. From an early age, a deep shame took root over something that wasn’t my “fault” or even my idea. In college, when a costume designer took my measurements, I thought I was going to die from embarrassment. I could feel the heat of my face, so hot I thought my head would explode. When she was done, that woman looked me dead in the eye and said, “Why are you hiding all this, girl?” I mumbled, stuttered, had no answer, and just went back to wearing my baggy bohemian clothes. Her words couldn’t penetrate the thick crust of shame. But over the years, because of MB and his influence and encouragement, his love, basically, the body shame instilled in me from puberty — from the moment the breasts adamantly appeared — has faded. Not disappeared. Faded. When I dress, I’m careful, but I don’t hide what God gave me, not anymore, although as far as I’m concerned, I don’t flaunt it either. Still, I guess that makes it a “heart issue” on my end then because while I do keep myself covered — I’m not cut down to there and up to here — I don’t hide my shape. I think the fact that I wasn’t wearing some kind of Muumuu for Jesus may have made those people uncomfortable.

Honestly, does any man understand how hard it is to hide 36D breasts? They ….. protrude. They’re made that way. Sometimes they’re hard to wrangle. Sometimes I tire of having to grapple them on a daily basis. But I wrestle them and subdue them because I am modest, but at the same time, I won’t allow some ridiculous, misogynistic — mostly unspoken — standards to force me to retreat back into shame over what God gave me.

Do men have any similar modesty standards put on them in these churches? No. No, they don’t. Men are the “visual” ones, the FOC says. Oh, please. Guess what, peaches? Women are visual too. Pretty darn visual. So, hey, how about you put on a shirt at the “Bible study pool party”? Maybe the sight of your chest turns me on. Maybe the sight of your forearms or your biceps. Maybe it’s your legs. Or your butt. Maybe it’s something as seemingly harmless as your hands. Ohh, believe me, women are visually stimulated too. Perhaps not to the level of men, but to act as if we’re not, as if what we respond to is only romance and ooshy-gooshy sentiments shows a deep misunderstanding of what turns women on. I’m not saying the visual turn-on is as universal for women as it is for men, but it’s not nonexistent, and it’s probably more prevalent than men would think.

It’s the misogynistic straitjacket of this whole survey that makes me sick. Really, there’s nothing you can do, women. No matter what you wear, some man somewhere will be turned on by it. It’s insane. Why don’t they just issue Christian burqas at their churches? Why not? I mean, I could be completely covered in a loose top and baggy pants and Kleenex boxes on my feet, but wearing a purse that cuts across my chest and BAM! some guy is turned on by that because it “calls attention to my chest.” How can any woman dress each day to ensure that no man finds her attractive or thinks “unclean thoughts” about her? Well, I guess it helps if the woman is a total bow-wow. I’m sorry. But it’s true. These standards will come down harder on the attractive woman than they do on the unattractive woman. A well-endowed woman could stand next to a flat-chested stick of a woman, wearing an outfit identical to hers, and it would not look the same on each of them. What may look perfectly “modest” on the first woman, may not look that way on Chesty LaRue. So not only are these “standards” misogynistic, they create prejudice against the attractive woman. They pit women against women — in their hearts. Their hearts, pippa! Their hearts that they’re supposed to be checking in terms of wardrobe but not in terms of how they treat each other, I guess. I mean, what a little green-eyed thrill to be able to approach Chesty LaRue at some point and confront her in love about her clothing. What a self-righteous surge of power. Any time she wants, some petty church beyotch can play the alpha female over a decent but booby woman who threatens her.

But back to the survey itself. While I do think it’s important not to be a widdle whore, most of this survey is just ridiculous to me.

For instance, in the “Undergarment” category, I clicked on the statement: “The lines of undergarments, visible under clothing, cause guys to stumble.”

Turns out, 46% agreed and 25% strongly agreed. Whatever.

I scrolled down and found a random 22-year-old guy who said:

We’ll think of what you look like in only your underwear. Also, if we can see the lines of your undergarments under your clothes, than your clothes themselves are not modest.

(First of all, it’s “then.” “Then,” ‘mkay?)

So you don’t like those lines, huh? You feel better if there are no lines? Most girls don’t like the lines either. Can I tell you something, precious? Sometimes when you don’t see any lines and are inwardly praising the Lord for a virtuous woman, etc., it’s because …. well …… she ain’t wearing any underwear at all. Think about that next time you see no panty lines.

Aaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!

In the “Posture/Movement” category, there’s this assertion: “Seeing a girl’s chest bounce when she is walking or running is a stumbling block.”

And one of my favorite insane comments, courtesy of a 17-year-old?

Please don’t let your chest bounce. I’m sorry, but that can really be distracting.

Oh, you silly little boy. Please don’t let my chest bounce? Uhm, how? How? Boobs bounce! Even in the best, most bulletproof of bras, they bounce! Good Lord. That comment shows such a lack of understanding of how the female anatomy works that I can’t even deal with it. Physics, young man, physics.

This is what I wish I could ask all the boys/men who took this survey:

Men, if your penis and testicles were normally and at all times the size of 3 water balloons — if men were just made that way — how would you minimize that, first of all, and make sure the whole apparatus didn’t flop around, second of all? How? How would you do that? If pressure were put on you as a gender to minimize the turn-on factor of your water balloons, what would you do? How would you dress so that we women aren’t aroused at the sight of that?

Or, maybe a better but more graphic question. (I’m sorry.)

Men, if your penis was designed to be erect all the time — again, it if just came that way and never assumed any other form — how would you dress around that? How? If it always protruded from your body and if the sight of that was a turn on for women and they expected you to hide it, cover it, make your manhood less apparent, WHAT would you do? How could you cover that up so that no woman anywhere ever lusts after you at the sight of your protruding penis? If God made your shape that way and you were expected to minimize something that’s virtually impossible to minimize — short of a burqa — wouldn’t you start to feel resentful of that expectation? Wouldn’t you start to wonder if women actually had contempt for how God made you? Wouldn’t you start to feel that no matter what you do or wear, you’ll never get it right? That someone will notice and take issue with your shape, your protrusions, and their lust will be all your fault?

Give me a break. I’m a woman. Things stick out from my body — and all women’s bodies — all by themselves. I have a shape. And I know that I’m not alone among women when I say it’s taken me years to like my shape.

I’m modest within reason. Don’t straitjacket me with your ludicrous standards.

Go read some of the guys’ comments, pippa. They’re crazy.

And I’m sorry that you will lose an entire day going over all the results.

(Edited 12/13/12 to add: If you really want to know what churches I’m talking about when I say “FOC,” please read this phonetically: “Ess Gee Em,” Google those letters, and see if you don’t come to a site called “Survivors.” That church is currently in a heap ‘o’ well-deserved, well-publicized trouble regarding child molest, etc. Neat, huh?)

Posted on

this is why christians are vexing

Some dude calling himself B.G. left a brilliant comment on one of my sex in heaven posts:

Hehe you fools, this kind of thinking will get you a free ticket to Hell. Heaven is NOT about you being happy – it is about you making GOD HAPPY BY SELFLESSLY SERVING HIM IN ALL YOUR THOUGHTS AND DEEDS (which will make you happy in turn.) Heaven is NOT for your pleasure; IT IS FOR GOD’S PLEASURE, NO IFS ANDS OR BUTS. Comprende, people? Sex in heaven? No way Jose! That would be SEEKING PLEASURE FOR YOURSELF, rather than focusing on your SOLE FUNCTION in heaven – namely, praising God! (As would eating, drinking, dancing, skiing or what have you.) And since we have nothing to offer God except for our adoration and worship – well, I don’t how my “human” body, complete with chest hair, buttocks and a penis flopping around would would enable me to do that. Those things were meant for EARTHLY purposes only (since I won’t be urinating or fathering children in Heaven, what point would there be in having genitalia?) I’m sure we’ll have eyes (to see God) and a mouth (to sing praises to God) but other than that, what kind of body would we require? Not much, I say!

Oh, I clap my hands at the chance to take this apart! Let’s do it, shall we, pippa?

Hehe you fools

This is always an endearing way to start on a stranger’s blog.

…. this kind of thinking will get you a free ticket to Hell.

Uhm, why, honeybunch? Imagining what heaven might be like is no bueno? God is making the ultimate gift for us and we can’t imagine what it is? Have you never wondered about the presents under the Christmas tree?

Heaven is NOT about you being happy – it is about you making GOD HAPPY BY SELFLESSLY SERVING HIM IN ALL YOUR THOUGHTS AND DEEDS (which will make you happy in turn.) Heaven is NOT for your pleasure;

So heaven is a bummer? “Now abide these three: faith, hope, love; but the greatest of these is LOVE.” Kinda think heaven’s about love — in ALL its created forms.

IT IS FOR GOD’S PLEASURE, NO IFS ANDS OR BUTS.

Hm. Doesn’t God already have pleasure? Isn’t he, by definition, basically self-sustaining? I mean, didn’t he enjoy himself before he ever made people? The ol’ Bible talks about him preparing a place for US. I see a God who is busily creating the most glorious surprise party the universe has ever known — and, yes, he’s doing it for US, so how is heaven not about our enjoyment? Your heaven sounds like a drag, dude.

Comprende, people?

Wow. Again, a charming first move on a stranger’s blog. Nothing more distasteful to me than someone who knows he’s right and needs to insult people from his position of perceived rightness.

Sex in heaven? No way Jose! That would be SEEKING PLEASURE FOR YOURSELF, rather than focusing on your SOLE FUNCTION in heaven – namely, praising God! (As would eating, drinking, dancing, skiing or what have you.)

So we can’t praise God with our bodies — by having sex, freed from the earthly confines, definitions, and corruptions of it? Sex is spiritual as well as physical, a pale earthly symbol of God’s love for his people. Imagine — which I actually think is your problem here — how that might be transformed in heaven. And what? No eating, drinking? DUDE, there’s gonna be a big fat wedding feast some day. I assume you’ve read about that in the Bible. What does “feast” imply? I mean, if you don’t want to eat the food in heaven, I don’t suppose God will make you. If you want to sit in a heavenly pew singing praise choruses forever, have at it. Personally, I believe that everything we do in heaven — eating, drinking, dancing, skiing, maybe even having sex — will be part of how we worship God. We will worship him with everything we do. But if you don’t wanna do anything …. uhm, well, stay away from me, ‘kay?

And since we have nothing to offer God except for our adoration and worship – well, I don’t how my “human” body, complete with chest hair, buttocks and a penis flopping around would would enable me to do that.

Hm. Don’t you worship God now, in your given body, complete with chest hair and buttocks and floppy penis? Or is their presence somehow disabling? Is the floppy penis a real millstone that keeps you from worshiping? “Sure wish I could PTL right now! Damn this floppy penis anyway!” Does it somehow ….. get in the way? As far as I’m concerned, a penis is never in the way.

Those things were meant for EARTHLY purposes only (since I won’t be urinating or fathering children in Heaven, what point would there be in having genitalia?)

Well, because you were MADE with genitalia? As a MAN? Sounds like you are literally jumping up and down at the chance — ohpleaseohplease — to be an eternal Ken doll. But he made you a man and the Bible clearly references that you will have a body. Beyond that, we can certainly use the body of the resurrected Jesus — a body that could be seen and touched, a body that could eat — as a reference point for what our glorified bodies will be like. Although maybe God won’t force you to have a body if you really don’t want one. But do you actually think you pass through the gates of heaven and surrender your penis? Is that what you think? Is that what you want? I can’t imagine that any man in his right mind would not feel mutilated if that’s what happens. I’ve actually had this conversation with My Beloved and he is not down for losing his penis. I’m not down for losing my saucy boobins or my fancy place, as we call it around here. I personally don’t believe heaven is a place of mutilation or loss. It sounds like you do, though. I believe it’s a place of perfection, redemption, making all things new.

I’m sure we’ll have eyes (to see God) and a mouth (to sing praises to God) but other than that, what kind of body would we require? Not much, I say!

So you’re saying that in heaven you’re nothing but eyes and mouth? Not only is that just flat-out wrong — if you care about biblical accuracy — but it sounds like a horror movie to me. Seriously. That’s not how God created you. He created men and women with bodies. He created sex. He doesn’t just rip up what he creates. Again, he makes it NEW. Your version of heaven is a hell to me. I want to enjoy heaven. Sounds like you don’t. You seem to have some issues with heaven, contempt for your floppy penis, and an utter lack of imagination.

Good luck, dude.

And before you barge in to make your first comment on someone else’s blog, you may want to get a feel for the room first. It’s never the best idea to come in as a stranger, both barrels blazing, insulting people’s intelligence.

My momma taught me not to do that.

And, again, seriously stay away from me up there with your open mouth and floaty eyes.

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where i am inspirational

My fake foray into Facebook continues apace.

On a related note: I hate myself for it. I do. You probably hate me for it too, just don’t say so to me, ‘mkay? I think there’s something vaguely despicable about it, although I’m undecided if it crosses over into completely despicable territory. Deciding between “vaguely despicable” and “completely despicable” is not high on my To Do list right now.

So I have this vaguely despicable fake identity on FB. All I did was sign up. I’ve done nothing to “my” FB page. Without checking, I don’t even remember what my FB name IS. I know I’ve changed it several times, as if I’m trying to hit on just the right name for a character in a novel. Insanity cannot ever be ruled out with me is what I’m really saying here.

But can I just say this? Consarnit all with the precious Care Bear Christians on FaceBook. I talked about this in a related post here, but I’m now discovering a plethora of Christians –many of whom I know — who do nothing but quote scripture and speak in platitudes on their FB pages, AND IT BUGS ME. I assume these people really want to “touch other people” or something and that’s why they do it. They want to “make a difference” in the lives of others. They’d never talk to a known gay person or drink a beer — God forbid! — but they’d mechanically quote verses on their FB pages in hopes of earning extra Jesus points. They think that people are moved, deeply moved, by the fact that they just “liked” some FB page called “Mommy’s (sic) for Jesus Christ.” (I swear, I’m going to join this damn group just to correct their grammar and spelling. Honestly, mommy’s.)

I’ve seen Christians on FB warn each other: “Don’t drink, just spend time with Jesus!”

And “exhort” each other: “This week’s gonna be a bummer.” “Oh, well, ‘consider it all joy,’ you know.”

And scold each other: “Uh, LANGUAGE ALERT!”

Uhm, precious? Shut up. Seriously. Do you talk this way to one another in person? Do you? I’m all for knowing scripture. I know scripture, but I avoid prancing around in my real life spouting it in people’s faces. Mainly because I’m too busy prancing around naked. (Just seeing if you’re listening.) Look. I am not the vicar. Or the vicar’s wife. So I keep my vicary thoughts to myself. Or use them as sex talk. (You’re listening, right?) And, Crackie, if you don’t randomly spout scripture in person, why are you doing so on FB? And if you truly are an inspirational coffee mug in person? Well, that explains your presence on FB, I guess. It’s the only place that will have you. It’s funny. I find that MB and I don’t generally quote scripture or talk in bumper stickers to each other in our daily life.

How would that play out anyway?

HE: Babe, I had a horrible day.

ME: Bummer. Well, ‘delight yourself in the Lord,’ peaches.

*****

ME: I look hideous.

HE: Yeah, well, ‘Jesus wept,” you know.

*****

HE: I’m really worried about X.

ME: Yeah, hon? Remember ‘life is fragile, handle with prayer,’ ‘mkay?

KAPOW, KAPOW, KAPOW!

All right, Facebook Christians. Enough already with being an amateur preacher or a walking bumper sticker. Be a real person. Say real things. Say honest things. Say faith is hard because it is. Say faith takes courage because it does. Say sometimes you’re just disappointed with God. Say sometimes he pisses you off. Say sometimes you don’t understand anything anymore. Say sometimes you wonder if it’s worth it. Say sometimes you want to chuck it all and walk away. Because as far as I’m concerned, if you’ve never come to those places in your faith, you haven’t thought that much about your faith. You haven’t really turned it over and over and over in your mind. You haven’t thought about deep things; you think only what you are told to think. You haven’t really held your faith to the fire for fear that it will burn to ash. Bottom line, you really don’t have much faith in your Faith. So you live on autopilot and quote what you’ve learned but have never considered and tell people about rules but not about grace and you share a scripture but don’t know its context and you’re fake fake fake.

Enough.

Sometimes, it really pains me to realize that I am on Team Christian and that Christians are the Chargers. The Padres! The Seahawks! The Lions!

Don’t believe me? Here are some actual recent FB postings from the people on my team. MY team!

“The LORD bless you and keep you; the LORD make his face shine upon you and be gracious to you; the LORD turn his face toward you and give you peace.” Numbers 6:24-26

Okay. Uh, great. Thank you for the benediction. Do you have anything else to say?

I am so thankful for the love of God. I’m excited to worship with my brothers and sisters tomorrow.

Well, mazeltov. You obviously didn’t go to Not On Your Life Cult, er, Church.

Here’s a thought: “Honor one another above yourselves.” Romans 12:10

Here’s a thought: How ’bout an original thought?

You know, I’m starting to wonder if I’m too much of a crankypants to be a Christian. Does Jesus love the crankypants among us? Maybe I just don’t have the proper team spirit. Maybe I need to get on board here. Be more of a bumper sticker. Be more Quotey McBiblepants. I hate being the outsider. Just jump on the Precious Moments Bandwagon, Trace. I mean, I want to touch people’s lives. I want to make a difference. I want to be inspirational.

So, okay. Here’s my verse to touch your heart today:

But Onan knew that the offspring would not be his; so whenever he lay with his brother’s wife, he spilled his semen on the ground to keep from producing offspring for his brother. Genesis 38:9

Have a shiny Jesus face day, pippa.

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sorry seems to be ….

The whole psychology of the apology is interesting to me. Why people do it, why they don’t (duh), HOW people do it, how they mess it up, how to do it right. I’ve talked about this a lot on the blog in the past. I tend to think the apology as a social convention and spiritual necessity is on its way out. People generally think they’re right at all times. I understand that. I generally think I’m right at all times. And because we generally think we’re right at all times, we don’t want to apologize because that would mean we’re actually admitting we’re wrong and then what oh what will happen to our view of ourselves that we are generally right at all times? It messes with our head. But the extent to which it messes with our heads is tied, I think, to just how much our sense of self is invested in believing we are right at all times. The greater we’re defined by our own “rightness,” the more likely we are to feel diminished by an apology and, therefore, the less likely we are to actually apologize. Or the more likely we are to offer a non-apology apology which gives the illusion of hitting the mark but is really a psychological sleight of hand.

I’m about to copy and paste my own final comment in the now-infamous “Kevin” thread, which makes me look both needy and self-important and, well, I have to plead mea culpa on that. Whatevs. But I want to talk about an “apology” he gave at one point in that …. discussion? diatribe? harangue? Whatever that whole dealio actually was. I may look like I’m throwing him under the bus, but Kevin basically threw himself under the bus with no assist from me or anyone else. I’ve banned him now — if it actually worked, since I think he’s at least occasionally using an anonymous proxy to surf the Net — and he won’t be commenting here again, so I think it’s safe to discuss this as a case study, so to speak. I made the choice to ban him because I don’t want to have the kind of blog I think Kevin WANTS me to have. I don’t want to come on my blog and argue in the round every stinkin’ day. That’s just not who I am. Some people like that, are even energized by it. Not me. I just get dizzy and nauseous after a while.

Here’s what I said in my last comment on that thread. (Oh, and sarahk weighed in with a great comment at the very end.)

You know ….. another thing that’s stuck in my craw over this is what I call Kevin’s non-apology apology. (I’ve talked about the non-apology apology before on the blog.)

Way up in comment #29, Kevin said:

/Tracey, I’m sorry if my comment came across as condescending./

See that? The dropping of the “if” bomb in that “apology”? No. That’s not an actual apology. An apology is taking sincere, honest ownership of what you said or did and not qualifying it IN ANY WAY. The ever-popular “IF” Bomb apology is a way to sound as if you’re apologizing when you’re really not. That one little word — if — does a huge thing: creates a sliver of possibility that, no, the offender DIDN’T really do or say the thing that you’re offended about. And, yes, it’s a sliver of qualification, but that’s HUGE in an apology. A person who does that isn’t taking ownership. He’s saying, subtly, “It’s YOUR problem that you perceived it that way.” He’s saying, “Maybe I did that, but MAYBE I DIDN’T.” It’s not a true humble apology. It’s BS and I call it.

Kevin had numerous people calling him on his condescension and contemptuous tone. He offered his If Bomb, his non-apology apology, and THEN CONTINUED TO BE CONDESCENDING AND CONTEMPTUOUS while all the while claiming moral superiority to the rest of us. “I’ve kept my cool.” “I haven’t returned insults.” Or whatever. Well, yes, he did, as I’ve already said earlier in this thread.

But if a person apologizes and is genuinely sorry, he turns away from the behavior that created the offense in the first place. What Kevin did would be like a husband who apologizes to his wife for being drunk on Wednesday night — while he’s drunk on Thursday night. In dropping that If Bomb, though, he gave himself permission to continue his bad behavior because maybe it’s a perception problem of, oh, a half a dozen people or more. Maybe it’s THEIR problem, not his. If If IF.

Gimme a break. That’s meaningless. A gloss-over. A knee-jerk thing to say that you really don’t mean. And it’s definitely NOT an apology.

So clearly, I was ramped up or on the sauce again or, most likely, both.

This is not a unique example. We’ve all received and/or offered these kinds of apologies ourselves. I mention it as an example of a common practice, not to point out Kevin as a unique offender. He’s not.

Sometimes that “if” will placate the offended or wronged person; sometimes, it won’t, but it’s definitely a useful — and cowardly — tool to make it look as if you’re humble and sorry, as if you rillyrilly care. At the core, it’s a deflection, a way to boomerang the whole issue back into the face of the offended, leaving them wondering, “Hm. Did I overreact?”

I don’t write about this thinking that I’ve got the whole apology thing nailed down because I don’t. It’s HARD to apologize. It is. I guess at this point in my life, for the sake of personal and spiritual growth, actually, I force myself to look at criticisms I receive and ask if there’s any truth in them, anything I need to own, no matter from whom they come (Doc, anyone?) and no matter how they’re phrased. And, yamahaha, Crackie, is it painful. It IS. Since I’m generally sure I’m right, I’m always feel as if I’m going to DIE when I sit down with a criticism and force myself to consider it. At that moment, I’m certain just the act of entertaining these less than pro-me thoughts will shrivel my pro-me brain into a useless tiny raisin rolling around in my head, killing me as swiftly as touching a live wire. Basically, it sucks. If I look at it as something I’m doing for me, though, something to keep me from becoming hard and calcified and bitter, then it hurts a tiny bit less. A very tiny bit less. When it’s an issue regarding a loved one, I try to ask myself, “Do I want a relationship or do I want to be right?” If I present it to myself that way — because, yes, I have to sneak up on myself — it’s an easy choice. A tiny bit easier choice.

Apologizing — really doing it — keeps us in touch with our own humanity. Our own frailties. That we can and do screw up. It acknowledges, too, the humanity of the person we’ve wronged or offended. Done wholeheartedly, it’s a weird but wonderful way to bind us together in the messiness of the human stew. Both parties find relief in the transaction when it’s sincerely given and sincerely received. Both parties are “seen.”

I don’t want to become numb to my own humanity. I don’t want to become numb to the humanity of others. If I can’t apologize or equivocate when and if I even do apologize, I’m already becoming that drone, emotionally numb and spiritually calloused, too captivated by my rightness to give a tiny rat’s bottom about anyone else.

And I don’t want to live my life gazing at the reflection of my own perceived rightness.

Because … how lonely is that?