Laura

Last night, after seeing a movie, I walked into my dorm room. Our AC is broken, so we have to keep the window open almost all the time (our heater is like a huge monster—it can’t be stopped, so we have to use the AC or the weather to make our room the right temperature). In the quiet, through the bursts of quick, sharp, cold wind, I heard two girls talking outside. One girl, her name was Laura I think, was talking to another girl, whose name I never caught. Laura was mad at someone for treating her wrong or cheating on her or something, and, like a volcano, the conversation gradually rose in intensity. Not five minutes later Laura was screaming at the top of her lungs, simultaneously weeping, saying, “I am so fucking tired of this; I hate him and I am fucking done with you.”  I wanted to cry. It was sad. It was horrible and broken.

 

I wanted to run outside (and I almost did, to tell you the truth) and give Laura a hug, an embrace, saying, “Laura, I love you. Laura God loves you. You are loved, Laura. It’s going to be okay, Laura. I am here for you Laura.”

 

I wanted to weep with Laura. I wanted to weep for her. I wanted her to know she is loved. Because it breaks my heart knowing that she thinks she is not loved and adored and appreciated and sought after.

 

I want Laura to know that God loves her, that I love her. I want Laura to know there is hope that doesn’t fail when the storms come and the torrents destroy our homes and our hearts. 

 

Laura, God loves you and wants you in His kingdom, in His arms, in His embrace, enjoying his wedding feast, feeling the warmth of His grace.

Anna Begins

My friend assures me, "It's all or nothing."

I am not worried, I am not overly concerned.

My friend implores me, "For one time only,

make an exception." I am not worried.

Wrap her up in a package of lies,

Send her off to a coconut island.

I am not worried, I am not overly concerned with the status of my emotions.

"Oh," she says, "you're changing."

We're always changing...

 

It does not bother me to say this isn't love.

Because if you don't want to talk about it then it isn't love.

And I guess I'm gonna have to live with that.

But I'm sure there's something in a shade of grey,

Or something in between,

And I can always change my name

If that's what you mean.

 

My friend assures me, "It's all or nothing."

But I am not really worried, I am not overly concerned.

You try to tell yourself the things you try to tell yourself

To make yourself forget. To make yourself forget. I am not worried.

"If it's love," she said, "then we're gonna have to think about the consequences."

But she can't stop shaking and I can't stop touching her and...

 

This time when kindness falls like rain

It washes her away. And Anna begins to change her mind.

"These seconds when I'm shaking leave me shuddering for days," she says.

And I'm not ready for this sort of thing.

 

But I'm not gonna break and I'm not gonna worry about it anymore.

I'm not gonna bend, and I'm not gonna break. And I'm not going to worry about it anymore.

It seems like I should say, "As long as this is love..."

But it's not all that easy, so maybe I should

Snap her up in a butterfly net and pin her down on a photograph album.

I am not worried cuz I've done this sort of thing before.

But then I start to think about the consequences,

And I don't get no sleep in a quiet room and...

 

This time when kindness falls like rain

It washes me away. And Anna begins to change my mind.

And every time she sneezes I believe it's love and,

Oh lord, I'm not ready for this sort of thing.

 

She's talking in her sleep.

It's keeping me awake. And Anna begins to toss and turn.

And every word is nonsense but I understand and,

Oh lord, I'm not ready for this sort of thing.

 

Her kindness bangs a gong,

It's moving me along. And Anna begins to fade away.

It's chasing me away. She disappears, and

Oh lord, I'm not ready for this sort of thing. 

Cookie-Cutter Nation

When I eat at the dorm cafeteria I have to turn on “Bullet in the Head” by Rage Against the Machine. The song is about how we, as a country, as a society, subscribe so readily to a certain way of life, a way of life leading us to apathy, to stagnancy, a way of life leading to selfishness, to self-worship. Here is a section of lyrics from the song:

 

No escape from the mass mind rape

Play it again jack and then rewind the tape

And then play it again and again and again

Until ya mind is locked in

Believin' all the lies that they're tellin' ya

Buyin' all the products that they're sellin' ya

They say jump and ya say how high

Ya brain-dead

Ya gotta fuckin' bullet in ya head

 

As I sit and eat my packaged apples I think, pondering the people around me, and on the rare occasions my headphones aren’t in, I listen. The number one topic of conversation is alcohol. No shit. Conversations go like this:

 

“Oh—my—gosh! I had like seven shots of tequila last night!”

“Oh my gah really? That is like so much! Do you remember anything?”

*Girl thinks for a few seconds* “Um I don’t think so . . . ”

 

What the hell are we doing?

 

Conspiracy-theory people are really weird, but this is truth: media tells us several things in America (I will say America all I want because this is where I live and I have only abroad so many weeks, so I don’t know their media, but I have every right to rant against the American media). Media tells us that alcohol both makes you happy and gets you sex, and the sex you get from alcohol isn’t some half-ass leftover sex, but sex with girls who look like air-brushed supermodels (girls who actually ARE air-brushed supermodels in the commercials). Google-Image Coors Light or Bud Light and see some of the pictures. Beer is sex is happiness. Better yet, Google-Image Sports Illustrated—what comes up? Oh, every single picture is a girl in a bikini. We are so bent on sex. Sex and drugs. Sex and drugs and buying things.

 

Another fact about America: our economy is built on buying things. Buy more things! How much of the stuff we buy do we actually need? The whole stability of our nation lies on purchasing things. Even now, when the economy is almost at rock-bottom, what are we told? Buy things! Buy things because they’re cheaper than ever! Our society, our economy is way past the point of capitalism; we have reached an obsession with things.  I can’t even describe how insane it is that we think all day long about things. Everywhere we are bombarded with things, with sex, with alcohol. We are being conditioned. And it’s bullshit.

 

Another aspect of the mass conditioning of American society is that, due to the (obvious) fact that we are all being shot with the same ads, we are all being told to be one way, to live life in this way. The alcohol and hot sex and skinny big-boobed money things more iPods (pause: have you ever noticed how funny it is that they are called I pods . . . how selfish can we get? it’s all about me! and the funniest thing is we are losing the me because we are all told to be the same!). More stuff!

 

Also notice how sexist this all is. Women are becoming objects more than ever. If you don’t think that there are feminist issues that we as Christians should be fighting for your head is up your ass.

 

Back to the lunch room: I can see the fruit of our media. I can see how we all are becoming homogenous. All the girls are looking the same and all the guys are looking the same and all the clothes are looking the same. We are becoming one—completely losing our individuality. I sit in the lunchroom and people talk about alcohol. I sit in the lunchroom and people all look the same. I sit in the lunchroom and go insane. We are becoming cookie-cutter people. We are letting the way our economy works govern our lives. Sex sells. Our economy runs on sales. So let’s sell sex. Let’s tell people sex will make them happy, or that beer will make them happy, because if they think it will cure their disease they will buy it. My gosh this is such bullshit.

 

I might have lost you by now but here is the part that angers me most. Because our country is so me-centered, we neglect other areas of the world (and here at home as well) that are impoverished that so desperately need our help.

 

In the first chapter of Galatians Paul talks about how he was “set apart” by God to do His will, for the advancement of the gospel. Like Paul, we (brothers and sisters in Christ) have literally been chosen by God to share the goodness. God has hand-picked you and me to share in the knowledge of Christ so that we may bear fruit and glorify the Father. God doesn’t want us to be what the American media wants us to be. God wants us to be like Jesus, who cares for and loves them and doesn’t (didn’t) live the alcohol and hot-sex-skinny-big-boobed-money-things-more-iPods life. Jesus, believe it or not, was not a product of America. Thank God.

 

We are set apart, sisters. We are set apart, brothers.

 

I conclude with a word of encouragement:

 

As most of you know, I have been involved with RUF (Reformed University Fellowship) here at the University of Iowa, and the friends I have made in and through RUF are so close to my heart. I see the Holy Spirit so evidently in their lives. The people at RUF aren’t cookie-cutter people because they have the Holy Spirit. The people at RUF and One Ancient Hope give me a smile. They gave me optimism and hope that this whole country isn’t going to shit.

 

God’s Holy Spirit moves. His son cloaks. He loves. 

Wings of Wax into City

I step outside and it’s colder than I expected. The wind, blowing in quick, sharp bursts, slices against my unshaven face, coldly reminding me it’s still winter. I light a cigarette. The bank tells me it’s 34 degrees. The wind tells me it’s colder. I stand for a minute or so, the cigarette in my mouth as I put on my black leather gloves. The wind cuts. When the gloves are on I look right, then left, looking for someone I know. It’s Iowa City. It’s small. Besides, I’m almost always within the two-block radius of Java House and Java House-Prairie Lights. I’m not a homebird but routine is nice. Gloves on, cigarette burning, I walk from lunch to Java House. I arrive and the cigarette is still burning. It’s about a 100-yard walk. Outside the door I wait, drawing from the Camel Light, back against the wall, looking toward the street. As the cars drive by (routinely), my eye wanders to the sidewalk, to the familiarity of this city. Not two feet in front of me stands a lamppost, its base surrounded by snow, dirtied with specks of brown, black, and dark-gray. I look closer and see hundreds of cigarette buttes, strewn about the snow like bodies in France after World War II. Toward the edge of the snow are five brown lumps. Dog shit. And all it once it comes to me: this is the world. The world is dirty snow, cigarette buttes, and dog shit. I throw my cigarette but into the pile. My mark.

 

Over the last few weeks my thoughts have been dominated by two things: the shortcomings of this life and the perfection of God’s heavenly kingdom. Josh the Quarterback and I were talking yesterday. U2 is an amazing band and they have a song called “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.” Josh and I were talking about this song. About how, despite all the beautiful things in life (community, family, love, to name a few), there is still longing. Nothing here can make us perfectly happy. That’s what I saw in the pile of cigarette buttes. That’s what I saw in Nigeria this summer. That’s what I see when I listen to the Counting Crows and when I read good literature and when I see my friends cry and smile and when Bono sings. “But I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.” But but but but but. Life is “but.” Life is, “Please one more.” Life is, “A little longer.” Life is, “A little deeper please.” Life is Icarus. If you aren’t familiar with the story of Icarus you should be. It’s an amazing story because, once you hear it, you see it everywhere.

 

In short, Icarus and his father were trapped and needed to escape. Icarus’ father fashioned them wings of wax, but before the flight he told Icarus not to fly too near the sun. When in the air, Icarus did what you think he would do, what we all do, he flew too close to the sun, and consequently his wings melted and he died in the sea below him.

 

We all try, in one way or another, to touch the sun, to “get there.” We try to reach heaven. And we die right before we get there. Look at Icarus throughout history: the tower of Babel comes to mind. Celebrities come to mind. Solomon comes to mind. I come to mind. You come to mind. The story of Icarus is the story of humanity: of trying to do it by ourselves. And damn it we get close.

 

“I have spoke with the tongue of angels. I have held the hand of a devil; it was warm in the night. I was cold as a stone, but I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.”

 

Now, if I haven’t lost you yet, the second pervading thought is much brighter. The brightest, in fact. And, as always, there’s a song that encompasses this thought.

 

Though the world is dark and painful, gray and bleak, my life is guided by a hope brighter than the sun that scorched Icarus. My life is led by a light greater than all the heavens together. My life is lead by the Light of the World. See John 8:12.

 

Though the world is stormy and rough, oft harsh and never enough, our world, my brothers and sisters, is a world of hope. Not a hope that is here just yet, but a hope to come.

 

“Don’t worry about a thing, cause every little thing is gonna be alright.” Bob Marley puts into words all the hope I have. “Don’t worry about a thing, cause every little thing is gonna be alright. Rise up this mornin, smile with the rising sun. Three little birds is by my doorstep, saying, ‘This is my message to you: Don’t worry about a thing, cause every little thing is gonna be alright.’”

 

I have hope that the Light of the World is gonna make everything alright, and that is how all the darkness is illuminated. I am guided by hope.

 

Revelation 21:1-7

 

garden—fall—redemption—city 

The Email

I’m listening to “Guerilla Radio” right now by Rage Against the Machine; my fingers are shaking as I touch the keyboard, double-tapping letters and misspelling words, because I haven’t been this angry perhaps ever. I’m seething. My blood is boiling and my heart is thumping out of my chest. The way you feel when someone insults your family or hurts someone you love. The way you feel when your Lord is assaulted, when your Lord is shown disrespect, when your Lord, when the Lord, is spat upon.

 

I’m in a fiction writing class and I wrote a story that says the infamous “f-word” and deals with violence and racism, and it’s a great story; it’s well written and contains multiple themes, motifs, and symbols. It’s a damn good story. It’s a great story that doesn’t offend anybody’s world-view, that is, unless you are a racist psychopath murderer. If you are, don’t read my story because it will offend you.

 

So our teacher sent out the stories we’re supposed to read for Monday. You see, four students write a story and the class critiques it. I got the stories about two hours ago. One of the stories was written by a guy, we’ll call him Jude, who is a Philosophy-Math double major (brief pause—my fingers are still shaking because I’m still seething). Jude is not a Christian, and apparently Jude also hates Christians and the idea of Christ being the Son of God, and the fact that God even exists bothers him to. It bothers him to the point that he just loves to hate on Jesus.

 

You know those people who are fans of a certain football team, but all they do is trash-talk the rival team? Jude is one of those guys. Jude is one of those guys who demands respect but doesn’t give it. Jude is one who doesn’t talk about his own (extremely insignificant) beliefs but other peoples’ beliefs. Jude is one of those guys who is all about tolerance but, oh so ironically, shows none. Jude is one of those people who write stories attacking Jesus Christ. People like Jude anger me. My temper is not terribly quick; there aren’t many things in this dismal world that anger me to the point of wishful violence. Jude is one of those things. Let me just get this out: right now if he walked into the room I would hit him in the face until he has brain damage. I’m sorry but I needed that out.

 

Now, all that you have just read is me speaking. It’s Hunter speaking. It’s the human side of Hunter speaking. It’s the side of Hunter that doesn’t have Jesus, the Jesus that Jude so horribly misinterpreted.

 

Here’s the side that Hunter is now: I love Jude. I love him and am praying for him. I am praying to God that Jude will come to a knowledge of Him. I will not respond like-mindedly but in love, however that may be. I love Jude and beneath the anger my heart breaks for Jude. This isn’t Hunter speaking but Christ. This is the Holy Spirit. This is YHWH: I love Jude. I would not be able to love Jude right now if it weren’t for Christ. Thank the Lord.

 

Here is an email I sent my teacher after reading Jude’s story:

 

"Okay, this is probably really annoying for you to have to deal with, but I have to ask about it.

 

I read Jude’s story, and, as a Christian, found it extremely offensive, and not only offensive but, to a certain extent, naive and uninformed. But most certainly offensive. I find it very ironic that so many non-Christians cry for "tolerance" and yet show many of my brothers and sisters none or very little. So, I'm presented with a huge dilemma: if I were to go with the initial feelings I have of the story's theme and ridiculous portray of Christ, I would most likely lash out and semi-attack his story, but I know that's not what Christ would want me to do (somehow I don't think that's the Christ Jude knows). He would have me respond in love. I'm attacked, I feel attacked, and not only am I attacked but God and His Son are attacked. There are really only a few things that anger me, and this is the one that angers me most. It's so damn hard for me to exercise any self-control at all.

 

How would this fare in older times? If I were a loyal vassal of a lord in Medieval times, I'd think I'd respond with violence, or at least some verbal defense. My Lord has been attacked, so what am I to do? Certainly the uncontrolled passion in me right now says attack back, isn't that the natural, "human" thing to do? But no, that's not what my Lord teached, despite what so many people think. He teaches love.

 

Now, don't get me wrong, there are a lot of idiot Christians out there, and I hate dealing with that fact. I apologize on behalf of them: for the Crusades, for the violence so many people have committed in the name of God, for the Church's stagnancy in the Civil Rights' movement, for the many of the deeply-racist churches in the South and in Dallas where I'm from. I'm sorry for anything that any Christian has every done wrongly to you, Miss Briggs. I apologize and hope that you see that's not ever what Jesus wanted. It breaks His heart and it breaks mine, greatly. I am sorry.

 

Back to our situation here. Here's what I figure is best for me to do, but I would like you to OK it first: There's enough I don't love about the story stylistically that I could fill half a page, so can I do that and just ignore the offensive nature of the theme? I am trying to see what He would have me do, and right now that is the only thing I can come up with.

 

I'm sorry you had to hear all that.

 

Peace, hunter"