Letting Go

Psalms and Matthew, today. And numerous sermon snippets, and a couple in-full.

Nothing to say, ever, which hasn't already been said. That's the way, as it's been.

The temptation to get caught up in semantics is always so vast, when it comes to discussing faith with people. I spent so many years caught up in that trap. So many years absolutely fascinated with means and methods of interpretation, and of how great a divide connotational comprehension always yields--just per way of the unique socialization experiences which each person partakes in, by varied situational constructs in effect over the course of life.

My attention was so utterly fixated on that divide for very specific reasons.

How, after all, do you effectively communicate with someone, if the very words being used convey variations in meaning between each, as to vary interpretation?

How does a person so adequately take these vast divides into account with any sufficiency as to ensure complete translation of the intended message with its truly intended connotational impact, as per syntax, tone, cadence, and all at one's disposal?

Each does have a significant impact upon interpretation. So, how to wholly and adequately take that other person's *pre-existing context for interpretation* (*ahem: perspective) into account as to convey fullness of meaning?

Over course of a conversation with someone, well over a year ago, I was simultaneously completely taken aback and utterly enthused by the realization that the vital point upon which any spiritual discussion hangs is so variably colored by their utter differences in conception of what "religion" means. To the extent that the connotational meanings which hang upon the very terms vary widely from person to person. I was utterly stricken by the realization that those connotational meanings were so very widely varied as to devastate potential for conversation along those lines, in instance, by invoking innate prejudices per mere mention of the terms.

It was roundabouts that point which I fell into a state of discouragement, even having come to a point of realization of a vital necessity for ongoing consideration, as to fulfill the then-present goal of being able to fully understand communication to an extent which allowed for true freedom in expression of intent, regardless the audience or party involved.

Months prior, I'd had the experience of witnessing two friends communicate very poorly. They both spoke fluent English and both had benevolent intentions in attempting to speak with one another. And neither said anything out of the way to one another, but their manner of speaking and interpretation was so vastly divided that, regardless that they were technically speaking the same language, they weren't at all. I intervened before it came to blows. And mediated for a few minutes.
Came to find out they both spoke Russian.

They communicated with one another very easily and readily and congenially in Russian, for quite a little while, even to the point of hugging and calling one another brother.

But the minute they switched back to English, they near came to blows again (literally--they were getting up from their seats, to "take it outside").

All because of vast differences in their manner of speech. Because of vast differences in their connotational understandings.

I understood the entire exchange as it went in English, so know as an objective observer that nothing with any overt offense was said. But their very words were cumulatively offensive, just because of the connotation which each separately had, as to comprehensive tone.

And no intent for offense was even nearly intended. None, whatsoever. I know--I acted as interpreter for a couple minutes, with each of them confirming my interpretation (of their English, mind you), to the other.

Ultimately, I told them they should speak to one another in Russian and give up on trying in English. Because there was no ill will on either side, but they just couldn't communicate adequately in English. They chose just not to speak to one another, instead.

Both had English as their primary language. Just, they were each from such different backgrounds and such differing perspectives of the world that they couldn't communicate at all. One was a lawyer, the other a biker fresh out of jail (edit*remembered I'd mentioned the latter fellow before, so wanted to note as much--he's the same one who called me crazy the morning I told him of my decision to get a degree in psychology to bartend and be able to better help people...was when I was bartending at what was once one of the worst bars in the French Quarter, dude was my bouncer--I still pray for him, he was always so very nice). And they'd met many times before, hung out many times before, and always came to argument...just per course of attempting to communicate.

Semantics.

That was such a strange few hours. Most are, in one way or another--praise the Lord! =)

Those sorts of things no longer consume me, by the grace of God. I can still look back on them in reference, though, when it comes to witnessing the same things trying to capture my brothers and sisters.

The difference, though, is one which...well, let's see.

Things with church have been strange for the past while. I started adamantly insisting upon receiving the Word in church on a multi-weekly basis, in April. It enlivened, to be able to soak up interpretations of the scripture. It was increasingly alive for me in a way I'd never experienced before, for the past couple years, really...but something changed even more fully, this spring.

And, to begin with, at the beginning of April/end of March, it was just a matter of being able to take in the sermon. It was just a matter of hearing scripture and hearing exegesis, having it all explained to me. Then, when that wasn't enough...just to go twice a week...there was a second church.

And it was the same, there. Worship was wholly new, wholly real, and the sermons were alive in both churches at both the places in Tampa.

There were points, still, which were longed for in addition to what was already there. But, such gratitude for receiving at all, as to such good!

Then, in May, when the call to return to WV/VA came, I was glad to know I'd be able to return to the one church. Part of moving involved moving family from Louisiana, too, and finding them a church.
So, two churches.

And the pastor's wife at one church in Tampa instructed me to find a likewise small group to attend, as had been done outside of church service at theirs.
So, three churches, because the particular group isn't held at many local churches.

The first two churches are Sunday, all day, including a small group before service. Each of those two has mid-week service of differing days, too. The third church has the mid-week group on yet another day.

In each, though, prayerfully attended...if something sets off a flag, I ask why, and it's explained. I don't always like the explanation or even fully know what to make of it. But, still.

Along the course, there've been a few other churches which caught attention in one way or another. And, as that sort of inclination has gone, I've followed. Into places I didn't want to go, even.

Some of which I'd like to go back to, if it's ever possible.
But the language is different in varied ways, in each. The tone differs, in concord with their differing relationships with the Lord.

And, same as there are things which I'm sure to still be off-key on, there are wrong notes struck time to time in each. Prayerfully attended, then so to note, even as explanation follows.

I've talked to two of my pastors about it, thus far.
The initial one told me he wasn't able to sit under wonky teaching, and it just came to me that it was a lesson in itself, to me, and so I told him--it's a matter of hearing what's off, as a flare goes off inside, praying about it, then asking and receiving explanation of what's off. So, I told him it's a lesson in itself, when it goes that way.
The other pastor just told me it was of importance to just be -somewhere- regularly, wherever it was (at which point I just looked confused for a moment, given that it had been possible not to miss a service in over two months at that point)...and told him it was something in which discernment was being learned, to go to various places.

Which, while it's not something to take lightly by any means--false doctrine is no laughing matter and it's a slippery slope to even come near--it's something I've become increasingly aware of, in part and at times in certain places of all the many visited. The whole bit is very prayerfully regarded and embarked and endured.

And I don't really know why. I really don't have any idea. Whatsoever.
Except to know that there are now four different churches I'm able to attend (by the grace of God, I'm able) on what's become a weekly basis, in addition to one which is "attended to" after the fact online, now.

Plus whichever other random ones end up being ones where there's leading to go.

And I don't know why.

I don't understand why I can't just sit at home and listen to sermons and praise the Lord and read the Bible cover-to-cover, rather than going out and involving in the things elsewhere.

Which, don't get me wrong on that--I'm not truly questioning it. If it's the Lord's will, which I pray continually about, then so be it and so will it be to continue. Just...I hear certain things from certain places sometimes which DO throw me off balance and into even more ardent prayer and study.

And, no matter where I go, it's not that I can wholeheartedly condone everything either. But, neither is it my place to judge. Only, there's this societal tend toward "guilt by association," and that jumps up sometimes to attempt to trouble.

Of course, on the other side of the spectrum, there's also this doctrinal tendency toward "innocence by association," too...which is just as wonky. Salvation is the ONLY way, and it's not by "association" but belief in Jesus as Son of God, crucified, risen, and ascended to the Father, as Savior...not "association" but acceptance, unto surrender, repentance, and deliverance. By miraculous work of the Holy Spirit.

For me, back in 2012 (oh, yeah...actually, that was June 2010 after my stolen car was recovered--I keep thinking of the stuff in the following paragraph in terms of salvation...the following paragraph stuff was in 2012), I prayed "the sinner's prayer," then immediately got caught up in trying to earn salvation. And ended up just giving up, because I couldn't measure up, no matter how hard I tried.
No matter how hard I tried, temptation was just too much. And I gave up.

Then, by the grace of God, through who knows how many people praying for me and through the ongoing interactions with one friend who's now beyond communication, ended up realizing that I couldn't earn salvation. That there was no way I could ever be worthy of it, by my own efforts--no matter what I did, how good I was, or how hard I tried...I couldn't earn salvation (the song "Embracing Accusations" by Shane and Shane, as shared by my friend, factored largely into that revelation...can't listen to it so much anymore, though, oddly enough).

It took two years, after asking Jesus to be my Savior, for me to even begin to accept salvation. Two years.

Two years of still looking in all the wrong directions for love, for fulfillment, for direction, for guidance, for help, and for truth. Two years.

And, even then, only by prayer and randomly interjected "Bible study" (oh, so laced with gnosticism!) with my friend, and the occasional church service which talked about stuff which, of course, wasn't actually talking to me...only by the grace of God, then, did I ever reach a point where revelation came that salvation wasn't by works.

No idea how many times I'd heard that said in church, even. No idea. But I did, then, have the idea that I could somehow help my friends in the bars by continuing to hang out with them, continuing to drink with them, while I continued to more regularly attend church.

How many times did I hear that message directly from the pastor as my first church? ...that "you can't help the people you're going out and being around, if you're doing the same things they're doing." Stated explicitly in those terms, in church. And I felt absolutely no conviction. Or...well, maybe just a twinge of it, at that point, to so remember it. But I do remember - deciding - that he wasn't talking to me, because what I was doing was somehow "different."

Yeah. No.

Either way, I didn't listen still.

And when the opportunity to move to Florida came up from my friend, it seemed the absolute best course. Except that something came up. And then, when that bit was over, something else came up.

First love. Then a career.

Love didn't last. The career was one which I had high ideals for, starting as middle management in a fast-track to success program, with the sky as the limit, retirement benefits, and all the bells and whistles which are so highly lauded by most. Only, my intent even as expressed to hiring managers, was to be able to do good works...to be able to use my position to help the public...the base theme of my interview was that I wanted to do good works.

And I had no idea that in order to maintain the position, I'd be expected to persecute folks without remorse. All in the name of business, of course. Because, after all..."It's only business."
So, it's supposed to be understood.

One brush with pneumonia (without time off--they needed me, of course), a lack of sanity, and a complete mental breakdown later...it was over. There was no way I could maintain 50-60 hours a week, breathing down folks' necks over trivial matters, running everywhere and unable to stop except to go outside to smoke (pray+read Bible, as it went)...and, no.

It was a running joke amongst corporate-level management that drinking was a run-of-the-mill go-to for anyone who managed on any level within the company, too. And that joke was no lie. Few and far between were those who didn't. Given a pre-existing tendency? Yeah.

The ONLY thing that even got me through six months of the ordeal, though, was delving further into church and grasping onto whatever bits of the Bible I could cling to in what moments alone were possible throughout the day.

To the point that, when I completely fell apart in May 2013, rather than going to the hospital...I went to my dad's, slept and read books inspired by the Bible, and started reading the Bible in even more earnest.

Moving to Florida was still a potential at that point, given circumstances of another friend there, and it was back on the agenda--just to get away from the trauma of the job and from the influences I'd surrounded myself with. I got a call about a tragedy in Louisiana, and collected bare necessities for the move...went to FL with a rent check, then immediately to LA.

For a visit which I don't even remember, so troubled was my mind.

Then, when back in Tampa, job hunt. And I remember driving down from the apartment one day, thinking again about the job that had just nearly destroyed me in so many ways, yet missing the prestige and the "security." And I asked God to have a job like that again, where there would be prestige and security and money and a clear path to career success.

I don't remember whether it was the same day or the next day that I got a call about a job interview. One which I hadn't applied for. They found my resume.

It was another management job. Salaried. With fewer work hours required. 

And I went for the interview and ended up with the job.

Started going to church, in the midst of that work again. Started going back to the same things--had to go outside and pray, read the Bible, using smoking as an excuse to do so...just to make it through the day.

And went to the hospital on January 1, rather than doing the things which had completely taken over thoughts.

Initially, I'd thought I'd be moving into a "dry" house, too. But it turned out not. So, that was an ongoing factor, as well. Being around something which was such a habit and crutch? ...when things got rough, it was pretty much a given, as to be anywhere near it. Complicated matters, for sure, in so many ways. Even as the core of the problem was just that I still had been doing things "my way."

Jesus was my Savior at that point, but He wasn't my Lord, in other words.

I prayed, I went to church, I read the Bible and clung to it for life...just to make it through the day.

But, when it came down to what my life was and where I went and who I talked with and what I talked about?

He was a second thought, if that. And that's a travesty.

Especially considering I was still, through all that, looking anywhere except to Him--first and foremost, craving love.

He loves me more than anyone ever has or ever will, even as it's impossible to know the extents beyond being able to know His sacrifice and the wonder of His presence. And I just kept shutting Him out, even though I took such joy in His presence at church and in those moments when it was possible to "have church" with either my roommate or my sister.

*sigh*

Yeah, still I refused to just talk to Him, through all that. I'd pray for strength, pray for obedience, pray for discernment, and pray for the ability to hear His voice better...all year, for those things, and for direction.

And, even praying for those things, I was still doing "my own thing." I didn't know any better. I'd heard people talk about having Him as Lord, but when everybody's driving Mercedes and living in mansions, or ASPIRING to those things above anything...it just made it seem as though all it meant to have Him as Lord was to go to church and to pray and read the Bible, and He'd just miracle the rest out to us.

So, I thought He WAS Lord of my life. By the standards of everything I was seeing, and according to what all I was hearing, I seemed to be tracking at least on the same path as everyone else...and they called Jesus Lord.

It didn't hit me, whatsoever, until I was laying in the floor not long after being released from the hospital, incapacitated by simultaneous bronchitis and back trouble sufficient as to make walking impossible...just laying there, looking up at the ceiling. All alone. Between absolutely excruciating trips to the further reaches of the apartment--few as was possible, for certain. Just laying there.

Unable to do anything, and wondering how to even get out of the apartment, should the need arise...given that it was third floor, stairs-access only, and I couldn't even get to the door. Realizing that I couldn't. That the only thing I could do was just give up and give in to the fact that there was nothing I could do except lay there, and just take it a moment at a time and hope for healing.

And hope for sleep. And pray.

There was something that came then, though, when I was fully conscious and far enough out of the throes of the fever to be lucid...realizing that there was absolutely nothing I could do. Nothing but wait.

Because I wasn't going to the hospital. I'd just had to quit the job, rather than end up back in the hospital (panic attack just at the thought of going inside the building, yeah). Wasn't going to the hospital. So, the only other thing was to wait.

And, even healing wasn't ensured. I knew that there was possibility that it might not come, depending upon what had happened with my back...it might be permanent, that time, was the thought. 

That was a sobering thought to come to terms with.

I just couldn't remember a time when it had been so bad, before, that I couldn't even hobble...at all. Just couldn't walk.

Barely could crawl, only carefully.

Just to lay there, on the floor, because it was too painful to try to get out of the floor. Or back into the floor.

All else was ensured torture. And there was no conceivable way of navigating stairs, given the pain entailed in even attempting to sit up. 

So, yeah--just laying there. Food wasn't really a concern, because it was best not to be concerned. I don't recall how water came into the equation, or whether it did.

But that second day, unable to walk, just something in me broke. I gave up. But, not just gave up. I gave it to God. Something in me snapped, and I just absolutely realized that there was absolutely no control on my end, but that He is in control. I gave up attempted control. And just...surrendered to His will, whatever it might be. 

And there was peace there, finally. Even in the pain. In the midst of the uncertainty. Because, yeah--not being able to walk means that there are a LOT of things about life that you sorta have to reassess, as far as how you'd even begin to go about them. In terms of being unable to descend stairs, as to enter society, getting another job seemed just next to learning to fly, in terms of being conceivable in terms which made sense. I had a lot of despair over those things as they flew through my mind, that first day and many hours. Because, no matter what I came up with, there was something--primarily being unable to GET to the stairs, let alone descend them...which was a kink in the plan for how I was to be able to proceed in life without the ability to walk.

If you can't even leave the room you're in, that kind of stifles the ability to realistically plan for else, yeah. 

So, I accepted defeat. Nothing I could do. Nothing.

I couldn't plan my way out of it, with certainty.

Because I didn't even know whether or not I'd again be able to walk. 

And that...yeah. Humbling.

I had to surrender to Him, then. Because I knew He already knew all the things. 

I was just trying to prove my self-sufficiency.

Because everybody's self-sufficient, you know?

Everybody has a job. Everybody pays bills. Everybody has an apartment or a house.

Everybody has a family. Everybody tries to do well for themselves.

And I was dead-set on conforming, to making the mark. So my parents would be proud of me. So I would feel as though I was accomplishing something. So I would be successful, and cross all the t's and dot all the i's like I was supposed to.

But, yeah. Laying there, incapacitated, kinda' changed my perspective a bit. 

He's in control. I'm not.

And it's SOOOOOOO much better that way.

Once I accepted that He was in control, I had peace.

Stopped worrying about whether I'd be able to walk. 

Stopped worrying about what I'd do for work, whether I could walk or not.

Stopped worrying.

Because He would make a way.

The next day, the pain was soooo diminished. Still there, but I could walk again.

Still had to go slow. But, much with hot water and continuing to know that God was in control.

And thanking Him for it.

It still took another month, thereafter, to get to the point where I was ardently pursuing the Word with everything in me. But...I'd started listening to Him in my personal time, by that point, already.

Having acknowledged that He was in control, and I was not.

Then, things started to change.

For the better.