I love being horribly straightforward. I love sending reckless text messages (because how reckless can a form of digitized communication be?) and telling people I love them and telling people they are absolutely magical humans and I cannot believe they really exist. I love saying, “Kiss me harder,” and “You’re a good person,” and, “You brighten my day.” I live my life as straight-forward as possible.
Because one day, I might get hit by a bus.
Maybe it’s weird. Maybe it’s scary. Maybe it seems downright impossible to just be—to just let people know you want them, need them, feel like, in this very moment, you will die if you do not see them, hold them, touch them in some way whether its your feet on their thighs on the couch or your tongue in their mouth or your heart in their hands.
But there is nothing more beautiful than being desperate.
And there is nothing more risky than pretending not to care.
We are young and we are human and we are beautiful and we are not as in control as we think we are. We never know who needs us back. We never know the magic that can arise between ourselves and other humans.
We never know when the bus is coming."
can someone please care about me for more than like a week
Writing is a constant battle between what you feel and what you’re willing to admit.
We grow up in America in the school system with very little exposure to art. Learning is mostly a matter of acquiring information. We’re trained to recognize truth as information. We don’t get much help in seeing things as a whole, in context, in relationship – I guess you could call it “an ecological imagination,” where everything fits, where everything goes together in some way.
That’s why the Scriptures are impenetrable to so many people, because we read them looking merely for information. The Psalms, which are the center of the church’s prayer life, are probably the least-appreciated part of the Scriptures because they’re poetry. They’re treated so selectively. People have their favorite psalms, but we’ve lost the old habit of the church of reading through the Psalter, reading them all in sequence over a period of a month or two. You’re practicing a form of lectio divina when you’re praying the Psalms. You hear psalms read at funerals and weddings, but we’ve lost this immersion in the Psalms.
When we approach the biblical text, instead of asking, “What does it mean?” – which is what people usually do – we should ask, “What is it doing? How do I enter into this? How does it enter into me?” You know, it’s surprising: We have Jesus as the centerpiece of what we’re doing, but he almost never talked in terms of explaining. He was always using enigmatic stories and difficult metaphors. He was always pulling people into some kind of participation.
It’s essential for us to develop an imagination that is participatory. Art is the primary way in which this happens. It’s the primary way in which we become what we see or hear.
I think a pastor is in a unique position to cultivate this participatory imagination. We shouldn’t just be giving information, because so much of what we’re dealing with is entangled with the invisible, the inaudible, the unsayable."