This inspirational post appeared recently on my news feed:
"Jesus is the only friend who never disappoints".
Initially, I passed it by. There is a glut of "inspirational quotes" on facebook, no doubt perpetuated in part by me, and you just tend to get desensitized after awhile. Somehow this stuck with me though, and as I began to think about it I came to a conclusion:
Guess what?
Jesus disappoints.
Ask the crowds who followed Him throughout much of his ministry. Clearly nearly all of them became disillusioned by the time of His trial. All those countrymen who expected Him to overthrow the Romans and bring forth a new era of Jewish independence were disappointed.
Why? Some of it is undoubtedly on our part. Ungodly expectations lead to disappointment. Sometimes people assign loyalties to God that He never owned. And then sometimes...
we think we're diligently asking in accordance to His will, and we are disappointed. I don't know why this is, and I think it's healthy and productive to admit that. There are lots of things I don't know, like what kielbasa tastes like or why buttered bread always lands butter-side-down. This life is a continual learning process and we'll never fully understand. Here's to working it out with fear and trembling.
I believe that disappointment with Jesus is common, and to deny that fact creates isolation and prevents dialogue.
I believe Jesus is good.
I believe Jesus is omnipotent.
I believe Jesus disappoints.
Let's not be afraid of the truth.
Wednesday, March 2, 2016
Wednesday, September 23, 2015
So long, summer.
So long, summer.
You've been good to us.
Between bookends of groggy sunrises and peaceful sunsets, days have been filled with the gaping exposure of mountaintops, perma-grins from riding new trails, and the soul-filling peace of new and strengthening friendships.
I won't forget the crushing heaviness of the ground when it's impacted at high speeds, the headaches caused by lakes covered in ice, or losing my dignity many, many times, because some kinds of dignity aren't worth holding on to.
And then there were the nights. Those nights that turn into mornings so quickly, proving friendship and maybe more. Nights populated by words and laughter, moonlight on alpine lakes, cold linoleum floors and broken couches.
No one was richer, summer's dividends were generous.
It's been good friend, we'll see you next year.
Caleb W.
You've been good to us.
Between bookends of groggy sunrises and peaceful sunsets, days have been filled with the gaping exposure of mountaintops, perma-grins from riding new trails, and the soul-filling peace of new and strengthening friendships.
I won't forget the crushing heaviness of the ground when it's impacted at high speeds, the headaches caused by lakes covered in ice, or losing my dignity many, many times, because some kinds of dignity aren't worth holding on to.
And then there were the nights. Those nights that turn into mornings so quickly, proving friendship and maybe more. Nights populated by words and laughter, moonlight on alpine lakes, cold linoleum floors and broken couches.
No one was richer, summer's dividends were generous.
It's been good friend, we'll see you next year.
Caleb W.
Saturday, August 8, 2015
Thursday, April 30, 2015
Mr. Gould
His voice was scratchy.
I'm not sure if he had chronic bronchitis, or if it was just worn out, tired from a lifetime of whispering and yelling and crying and laughing. I don't remember that bothering me. Maybe something about being a homeschooled kid of twelve who played by himself a lot insulated me from what the world considered cool. He was rich. I knew this because he had a pool. He lived with his wife in a nice house, nestled neatly within american suburbia. I remember his driveway being ridiculously steep. My mom would drop me off at his house once a week to learn things. Sometimes it was photography, sometimes is was building a model plane, sometimes it was how computers worked. He was smart. The kind of smart that made a kid's head spin with numbers and diagrams and terms that were hard to understand like "flying erase head" and "single lens reflex". He spent hours with me. I'm sure I wasn't the easiest kid to teach. I'm fairly convinced I had ADHD or ADD or one of those acronyms that keep people in boxes and tells them why they can't do things. That didn't seem to bother him. Every week I would show up, and every week he would invest his time and leave me a little bit smarter.
Sometimes I wonder why he did it. He had worked hard all his life to reach the plane he stood upon; one of few responsibilities and ample resources. He would have been more than justified in spending those twilight years doing anything...or nothing. Instead, he spent time with a weird pre-teen boy who thought he wanted to make movies. Maybe he was lonely, but I don't think so. I think he chose to spend those hours investing in the next generation with his time and knowledge. I think he saw broken families and aimless kids and wanted to do something about it. I think maybe some of those families and kids were closer than I knew. But that's just what I think.
I still visit him. Every year or so I'll drop by and we'll talk about where I live and how crazy technology is getting and if I'm married yet. He never looks any older, but I'm always worried that when I ring the doorbell, a young face will appear; one without fuzzy white hair or glasses falling off the end of it's nose. It reminds me to redeem the time, and invest it in the things that are really important.
Just like Mr. Gould.
"They lied, when they said the good die young..."
I'm not sure if he had chronic bronchitis, or if it was just worn out, tired from a lifetime of whispering and yelling and crying and laughing. I don't remember that bothering me. Maybe something about being a homeschooled kid of twelve who played by himself a lot insulated me from what the world considered cool. He was rich. I knew this because he had a pool. He lived with his wife in a nice house, nestled neatly within american suburbia. I remember his driveway being ridiculously steep. My mom would drop me off at his house once a week to learn things. Sometimes it was photography, sometimes is was building a model plane, sometimes it was how computers worked. He was smart. The kind of smart that made a kid's head spin with numbers and diagrams and terms that were hard to understand like "flying erase head" and "single lens reflex". He spent hours with me. I'm sure I wasn't the easiest kid to teach. I'm fairly convinced I had ADHD or ADD or one of those acronyms that keep people in boxes and tells them why they can't do things. That didn't seem to bother him. Every week I would show up, and every week he would invest his time and leave me a little bit smarter.
Sometimes I wonder why he did it. He had worked hard all his life to reach the plane he stood upon; one of few responsibilities and ample resources. He would have been more than justified in spending those twilight years doing anything...or nothing. Instead, he spent time with a weird pre-teen boy who thought he wanted to make movies. Maybe he was lonely, but I don't think so. I think he chose to spend those hours investing in the next generation with his time and knowledge. I think he saw broken families and aimless kids and wanted to do something about it. I think maybe some of those families and kids were closer than I knew. But that's just what I think.
I still visit him. Every year or so I'll drop by and we'll talk about where I live and how crazy technology is getting and if I'm married yet. He never looks any older, but I'm always worried that when I ring the doorbell, a young face will appear; one without fuzzy white hair or glasses falling off the end of it's nose. It reminds me to redeem the time, and invest it in the things that are really important.
Just like Mr. Gould.
"They lied, when they said the good die young..."
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
Sunday, October 19, 2014
#honestyweek
It's no secret that social media isn't always the most honest representation of ourselves.
And that's not always bad. I prefer to see inspiring, beautiful things rather than the alternative. However, this often results in a collective feeling that everyone else's lives are significantly awesomer than our own. Nobody posts their downers, right? Well I am. For one week, I'm proposing an international #honestyweek, posting all the things that make us human, the flat tires, bad hair days and failures. Not to whine, but to prove that we are not alone in our shortcomings and frustrations. Maybe it will catch on and maybe it'll just be a guy posting a bunch of lame pictures for a week. Either way, I hope it will encourage at least one person to continue the race, because no one's life is perfect.
Die Living,
Caleb W.
And that's not always bad. I prefer to see inspiring, beautiful things rather than the alternative. However, this often results in a collective feeling that everyone else's lives are significantly awesomer than our own. Nobody posts their downers, right? Well I am. For one week, I'm proposing an international #honestyweek, posting all the things that make us human, the flat tires, bad hair days and failures. Not to whine, but to prove that we are not alone in our shortcomings and frustrations. Maybe it will catch on and maybe it'll just be a guy posting a bunch of lame pictures for a week. Either way, I hope it will encourage at least one person to continue the race, because no one's life is perfect.
Die Living,
Caleb W.
Sunday, September 14, 2014
#winning.
I stood there, staring up at it.
A massive wall, over a thousand feet high, defying us.
Disappointment drained the adrenaline from our veins as we stood on a rocky outcropping, 3/4 up North Maroon Peak in the White River National Forest. After several setbacks, we had managed to push high onto the peak, only to find a false summit and 1,200' of loose, near vertical scrambling standing in the way of our goal. It's a critical moment as we weigh the looming clouds, falling snow and slight water supply against our desire to reach the summit and not break a perfect summit/attempt ratio. It meant a lot to me that I had never failed to reach the peak of a mountain I attempted. It meant I had done the research, possessed the skill and had the physical strength and willpower to forge ahead when others had turned back.
But it meant more than that.
It meant I was a winner.
And being a winner means you're valuable.
We make the call: Turn back.
Frustration rose high in me. We had already worked so hard. Arbitrary percentages ran through my head: "I mean, there's like a 90% chance everything would be perfectly fine." That was probably true. It's the 10% that will kill you, I guess.
Something was cemented in my mind that day. My struggle to prove my value compels me to perform. Climbing a big pile of rocks really doesn't mean anything, especially to people who climb bigger piles of rocks. Somehow I've taken things like riding a bike or a piece of fiberglass down a hill into a metric of my relevance in this world. Luckily I'm not that great at those things, otherwise I might have gone my whole life living in this lie.
The Truth:
Winning does not make you valuable.
Or getting the girl.
Or landing that job.
Or stomping that trick.
Or knowing more than your buddy.
Or being faster, smarter, more determined, better dressed, wealthier, poorer, cleaner, dirtier, more compassionate, more socially conscious, more generous, blah, blah, blah.
It's all crap. We've (read: I have) turned our ability to do good things into a harsh god, raining down condescenance and condemnation on those who don't win at life. All of our righteousness is crap, including all the things that we think we can do to boost our value points.
"I am not a good man, it's good I seek to do. Heaven's gate is narrow, pray for me, I'll pray for you"
A massive wall, over a thousand feet high, defying us.
Disappointment drained the adrenaline from our veins as we stood on a rocky outcropping, 3/4 up North Maroon Peak in the White River National Forest. After several setbacks, we had managed to push high onto the peak, only to find a false summit and 1,200' of loose, near vertical scrambling standing in the way of our goal. It's a critical moment as we weigh the looming clouds, falling snow and slight water supply against our desire to reach the summit and not break a perfect summit/attempt ratio. It meant a lot to me that I had never failed to reach the peak of a mountain I attempted. It meant I had done the research, possessed the skill and had the physical strength and willpower to forge ahead when others had turned back.
But it meant more than that.
It meant I was a winner.
And being a winner means you're valuable.
We make the call: Turn back.
Frustration rose high in me. We had already worked so hard. Arbitrary percentages ran through my head: "I mean, there's like a 90% chance everything would be perfectly fine." That was probably true. It's the 10% that will kill you, I guess.
Something was cemented in my mind that day. My struggle to prove my value compels me to perform. Climbing a big pile of rocks really doesn't mean anything, especially to people who climb bigger piles of rocks. Somehow I've taken things like riding a bike or a piece of fiberglass down a hill into a metric of my relevance in this world. Luckily I'm not that great at those things, otherwise I might have gone my whole life living in this lie.
The Truth:
Winning does not make you valuable.
Or getting the girl.
Or landing that job.
Or stomping that trick.
Or knowing more than your buddy.
Or being faster, smarter, more determined, better dressed, wealthier, poorer, cleaner, dirtier, more compassionate, more socially conscious, more generous, blah, blah, blah.
It's all crap. We've (read: I have) turned our ability to do good things into a harsh god, raining down condescenance and condemnation on those who don't win at life. All of our righteousness is crap, including all the things that we think we can do to boost our value points.
"I am not a good man, it's good I seek to do. Heaven's gate is narrow, pray for me, I'll pray for you"
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