I Am RELEVANT

Today I talked to Cameron Strang, RELEVANT CEO, on the phone. As most of you know, RELEVANT and I had a bit of a falling out earlier this school year. I'm proud to say that's all over. I forgive RELEVANT and I think RELEVANT forgives me.

I've blogged about this journey for about a year. Last May the "fields died" and I decided not to pursue a job with RELEVANT. I've done a lot of research and talked to a lot of people since then. I've drawn conclusions - conclusions I'm still not happy with.

I don't think Cameron is the bad guy. I don't think RELEVANT is a horrible magazine. I think, though, that I was putting too much hope in a magazine created by human hands. Run by imperfect people.

I started reading RELEVANT when I was fifteen; I started "taking God seriously" when I was twelve. I was a baby Christian. RELEVANT was my connection with God. The same way it's hard realizing your pastor is imperfect, it's hard realizing your magazine and the people running it are too.

I don't know what to make of the research I did last fall. I don't know if it's true. I trust the people I talked to, but I want to trust Cameron too. He's passionate about what he's created - the same way I'm passionate about my writing (and this blog!).

I know this has taught me to trust God. He has good intentions; he challenges me for a reason. God didn't "kill" RELEVANT just to torture me. He didn't use me to expose the dirt of this company or anything like that. He used RELEVANT to teach me trust. He asked me, like Peter, if I love Him more than all of these, more than RELEVANT. When I finally said yes, when I finally believed what I said and moved on with my life (yay PLC!), God brought the fields back to life.




I forgive you, RELEVANT.



Ezekiel.

Repentance, forgiveness, etc.

Last Sunday at my church, Westminster Presbyterian, Pastor Justin preached about the Prodigal Son, one of my favorite parables of Jesus. (Cliché.) But Justin taught it in a new way, a way that made me really, really angry at first. (Foreshadowing.)

What if the prodigal son was not repentant?
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This blog is dedicated to Nick, who buys me Starbucks before church every Sunday.

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Last Tuesday Haley and I upset Prof. Perry (our favorite IWU professor, no matter how long it takes him to grade our exams). We were on Facebook during class, which he hates more than anything, and our conversations popped up on his news feed. 

Yes, that was a huge FAIL on our behalf. If we're going to break rules, we need to be better at breaking them. 

Anyway, I felt horrible about it - the good kind of horrible. The kind that brings me to repentance (II Cor. 7:10). Because though I've been on Facebook during this class before and Prof. Perry has known, I have never repented. I haven't really been sorry.

Side note: I've noticed that these last two posts seem very guilt-driven, and they're not really. I felt guilty about how I treated my former crush only because I hadn't done anything about it (that is, repent). I will feel guilty about disrespecting my favorite professor as long as I continue to peruse Facebook during his lectures.

So I won't anymore. Hear me, Prof. Perry, I will not be on Facebook during your class anymore. It's done. My laptop will stay in my dorm room, no matter how inconvenient it is. 

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I hate disappointing people. If anything is going to bring me to repentance, it's that watery look in your eyes.

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So what if the prodigal son was not sorry? What if he only came back to his father because he knew he had no other option? It's as if I'm not going on Facebook in Perry's class because he banned laptops. But I can still bring my laptop to his class. I can still be on Facebook and post rude comments about his class on his wall. (Argg.)

But I'm not. (This is beginning to sound self-righteous; I'm aware of that.)

Pastor Justin used Luke 15:17-19 to back up this theory:

"When he came to his senses, he said, 'How many of my father's hired men have food to spare, and here I am starving to death! I will set out and go back to my father and say to him: Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son; make me like one of your hired men.'"

Jesus says that the prodigal son "came to his senses," but that's not the same as saying the son knew he was in the wrong. Yeah, duh eating from a feeding trough wasn't "sensible." You don't have to think you're in the wrong to know that. The text doesn't come out and say that the son was sorry, just that he knew he didn't want to be poor and hungry and dirty anymore.

Pastor Justin said that the phrase "I have sinned against heaven and against you" was meant to remind the Pharisees of the last time that phrase was used, with Pharaoh during the exodus (Ex. 10:16). I agree that this is probably true because Jesus has done this before ("My God, my God, why have you forsaken me," Ps. 22). And honestly, Jesus likes shocking the Pharisees. He does it a lot.

But what's interesting is that Pharaoh told Aaron and Moses that he had sinned against God and them, but he still wasn't repentant. He was just trying to get out of trouble. He didn't want another plague, but he wasn't about to let the Israelites free.

And finally, if the son was really repentant, do you think he'd really care to be a hired hand? He still wanted paid, probably to go out and go crazy all over again. Get more gambling money. Replenish the supply, so to speak. If he was sorry - truly sorry - wouldn't he be okay with being an unpaid slave?

Of course we don't know any of this for sure. And it's a little frustrating to believe that this could possibly be true if you've heard it one way your whole life. But if it is true, what does that say about Grace?

It says that God forgives us - he runs to us, embraces us, pardons us - before we ask for forgiveness. Before we even feel the need to be forgiven.

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What's scary about asking for forgiveness is that no one has to forgive you. Not everyone is as gracious as the prodigal's father. No one is God.

I hate disappointing people because they aren't obligated to forgive freely. Prof. Perry could hold a grudge against me. I could've affected our relationship by my disobedience.

So ... I guess that's where we come in. That's where Christians come in. Freely we have received, freely we give.

It's up to us to forgive freely,
to hold no grudges,
to love unconditionally.



It's hard. I know.


ezek.

Repent and be baptized

Over spring break I thought about what God's been teaching me. I immediately thought of forgiveness, how he's showing me that true forgiveness demands repentance. But then I remembered how I've been doubting basically every belief, and he's been teaching me the importance of faith. And then I thought about how everything is dying, and how I have to let it die, and be transformed ... redemption. And Grace? The hug? This should sound vaguely familiar: my blog series.

Ah yes, my blog series. Remember how I said that these four guys (forgiveness, faith, redemption and Grace) would be BFF? Well, they've been sticking together these past few months indeed.

This blog is about forgiveness.

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This is what I know about forgiveness: you cannot truly ask for forgiveness unless you've repented. It's kind of the definition of forgiveness. It's insincere unless you mean you will never do that again.

A few blog posts ago I wrote about how I handled a rejection horribly, and how I began blaming him, my former crush, instead of taking a few big breaths and moving on.

This blog is about him.

Back story. Whenever I feel the need to get over a crush (when it's going no where or I am flat-out rejected), I react in two ways: I either never get over him or I demonize him. I decided to demonize this poor guy.

I wrote several angry pieces about him (blogs, essays, etc.). I got my posse of girlfriends to hate him too. It's all very teenagery of me, very "Mean Girls."

Anyway, I started feeling guilty - obviously - because that's no way to treat another child of God. So I sent him a text, invited him to coffee, and planned my apology. (When I say planned, I don't mean I wrote a script - I should've written a script. In hindsight, writing a script would have made this go smoother.)

Let's stop right there. Have you ever apologized to someone? I mean really apologized to them. I don't mean sending an email. I don't mean saying sorry for hitting their car or forgetting their birthday. I mean, sitting someone down, admitting a fault and begging for forgiveness.

Let me tell you: it's hard. I don't think I've ever done it before. Oh, I've needed to - several times - but I've never done it. Yesterday I realized why: it's messy. It's really, really messy.

I thought it'd be more like the movies. I'd say, "I'm sorry for treating you like crap, even though you may not have noticed it. Please forgive me." Then he'd give me a sad little smile and say, "Aw, of course I forgive you." Then we'd hug and part ways. Friends again!

Yeah, no. That doesn't really happen. He kept asking questions. It was more like this:

Me: I'm sorry for treating you like crap, even though you may not have noticed it.

Him: How have you treated me like crap?

Me: Uh, I've written ... things.

Him: What things?

Me: I dunno. Essays. I got my Prose class to hate you.

Him: Well, how? What'd your essay say?

Stop, stop, stop! Lots of awkward silences followed. He did, finally, forgive me. And we're friends again. But it wasn't as picture-perfect as I had hoped. And I didn't feel like sunshine and rainbows afterward either.

On the phone:

Jacque: How'd it go?

Me: Alright. I don't feel any better.

Jacque: Oh yeah?

Me: I was afraid this would happen.

Jacque: Are you glad you did it, though?

Me: Yeah ...

I am. It restored a relationship. But it sucked. And even now, twenty-four hours later, I still replay my silly responses in my head. But I think that's okay. I don't feel the urge to call him a dirty bastard! under my breath anymore. (Which is good because he's not a dirty bastard at all. Not even a little bit.)

--

Walking to my car before the aforementioned apology, I recited in my head my goals for the evening. I wasn't going to write a script, but I did have expectations for the night:

1. Apologize (i.e. not chicken out)
2. Reconcile our relationship

I recited that in my head as so: a-pah-lo-gize-n-re-con-cile (imagine it sing-songy). Then it turned into: a-pah-lo-gize-n-re-con-cile-ev-ery-one-of-you. Then it turned into Acts 2:38: "Repent and be baptized ev-ery-one-of-you, in the name of Jesus Christ, for the forgiveness of your sins."

Then I started thinking: What was it that I wanted to accomplish this evening? Wasn't it the same goal as Peter's? To repent (to ask this boy for forgiveness)? To be baptized (to give our friendship a rebirth)?

I think ... I think it's the same thing.

Maybe I wasn't sitting across from this boy. Maybe I was sitting across from Jesus.

Me: Jesus, I'm sorry for being so judgmental.

Jesus: How have you been judgmental?

Me: Uh, I've just thought things about people without knowing them.

Jesus: Like how? [stares at me with his pretty green eyes]

Me: [looks down at her arms, her tea, looks over to the other table, up at the ceiling]

Jesus: Well?

Me: Um. I've ... called people names in my head ... I've ... 

Jesus: What names?

Me: Um. Dirty bastards.

Jesus: Hmm.

Me: I'm sorry!

Jesus: [pause] So what now?

Me: I don't know.

Jesus: Laur-en.

Me: I want to be your friend again. I want you to be my Liberator.

Jesus: Okay then. We will be; I will be.

Me: I'll make it up to you ...

Jesus: It's okay, girl. We're cool.

Me: ... Good.

Jesus: [sad smile]

Me: [sad smile]

ezek.

on Forgiveness

This is the worst one.

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Yesterday the newspaper staff had a meeting about some of the problems we've been having this year so far. I brought up a long list of clerical issues - stuff we couldn't have anticipated earlier on - hoping to diffuse any catty fighting before it began. Our staff has turned against each other; I call it "the War." I thought talking about productive issues like how to get people to turn assignments in on time would keep any emotional stuff from surfacing.

Yeah right.

The song kept popping into my head: "If we're adding to the noise, turn off this song."

I've added to the noise.

I pretended to be Switzerland; I've become Benedict Arnold, a backstabber. The traitor on both sides. I'm not a revolutionary; I'm not a Tory.

I gossip. I can't stop doing it! I slander. I don't obey the post-it note on my desk: "God wants me to love [coworker's name]."

I don't hate bigotry; I hate bigots. I don't hate war; I hate warmongers.

It's as if every lesson I've learned about love has been erased: I've edited them into nonentity. It turns out being bitter/angry/wrathful is way easier than forgiving.

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This is the hardest one: I don't know how to forgive. I know how to say it: "I forgive you," but I don't really know how to forgive.

I wrote an essay on forgiveness for Sentence Strategies about my stepmom, about how I haven't forgiven her for her alcoholism and the effects thereof. I told her that I forgave her, and it's not that I've been mulling over her past mistakes or anything. But I still don't think I've forgiven her.

I think forgiveness takes reconciliation.

I hate that word. It's a tough, tough word. It implies action. It implies humility. It involves me asking for forgiveness for my unwillingness to forgive.

Ugh.

The thing is, I know that this newspaper stuff isn't all that I need to ask forgiveness for. There's another publication that I've stirred drama over: dear RELEVANT. I feel burdened to ask Cameron for forgiveness.

Ugh.

It's ironic that what I thought I hated about RELEVANT is the very thing I'm engaging in. I am not being very Christ-like. Huh.

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At the beginning of this school year, I found myself hating people on campus for no good reason. This happened frequently:

Lauren: Arrg. There's [insert name of NECC intern]. He hasn't even acknowledged me all school year.

Abby: Well, why don't you say hi to him.

Lauren: But he's a leader. And it was my church he interned at.

Lindsey: Oh geez.

Those people don't need to be forgiven - isn't this interesting? - but I feel like they need to apologize to me. Huh. I think people owe me something. They owe me a "hello" or a nod or something. But they don't.

No one owes me anything ...

... but I'm in debt to them.

"Let no debt remain outstanding, except the continuing debt to love one another. ..."

They don't owe me Grace, but I owe them Grace. It's not their attitudes or behaviors that I need to change, but my own attitude toward them.

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Before our meeting ended, Dr. Huckins closed with a prayer. He mentioned a verse in his prayer, and it stuck with me:

"Be kindly affectionate to one another with brotherly love, in honor giving preference to one another. ..." Romans 12:10

I like that: "giving 'preference' to one another." Not only am I going to forgive you or ask you to forgive me, I'm going to prefer you over myself. I'm going to prefer being around you than being away from you. I'm going to prefer you to be my boss and no one else.

What a radical ("rooty") picture of forgiveness. And Grace.

It's not just a way to take care of the immediate issue ("I'm mad at you about this and this") but a way to get to the root of it, to reconcile, and keep bitterness from brewing.