Based on a True Story

I can’t do it.

I sit in the mall. I probably look like one of those crazy, reclusive types as I peep over my laptop every few seconds, watching the people traffic pass me by. Do you ever have those moments when you’re completely struck with the intricate significance of a human’s life, and yet simultaneously struck by our insignificance in it all? I can narrow in and watch one person. They have a life outside of this moment. They have a history and, presumably, a future. They have loved and they have been hurt and they have a totally different perspective on the world than I do. I wonder what that person could teach me. But then I zoom out again, and the face is lost. We are but one in the sea of humanity. I think it’s another one of those intended paradoxes of life.

The mall is full of gang wars. The cluster of teens coming out of Hot Topic, branded by their gang piercings and tattoos are in a social war with the kids across the street at Aeropostale, marked by their matching gang t-shirts. Their war is one of silence and sneers. Everyone is judged and measured. “Ignore them,” they say about the other. “Nothing good can come out of [Nazareth].”
The thought crosses my mind, “I wonder what we would look like stripped down of our adornments.” I make a face to myself, realizing that idea’s going to need a good explanation behind it. I just mean, how much of our identity is in our physical? A lot. What would happen if we were all lined up, stripped of our branded clothing, our piercings, our haircuts, our makeup, our phones, our cars, all our possessions? Who are you when all of that is gone? I have to admit that I’m not really sure. I’m not really sure. And that disturbs me.

I used to love this. The mall, I mean. I loved the atmosphere. I loved the materialism. I loved the judging. I wouldn’t have named those things as what I loved, but those are the words I ascribe in hindsight. My downfall has always been the material. As I sit here, watching the women walk by with their bags of newly purchased items, I realize I am not alone, and this anger rises within me against the world. The world that I loved. The world of fashion and marketing and beauty. As I sat at the foot court, I metaphorically spat on that world for betraying me. And then I realized that materialism is like sex. (What is up with these metaphors?) By that I mean (like I said in my Liquid Lust blog) it shouldn’t be a god to us, but it also shouldn’t be a demon. Materialism isn’t my enemy; it’s just a tool. I can’t hate it because that’s the easy way out. And that’s not truth seeking.

I don’t know how to approach the world anymore. I mean, in my head I sort of have an idea. It’s about serving people, the least of these. Loving, even when it means self-sacrifice and being obedient to the will of God, even when it means my dreams are shattered. Right now I feel like I’m standing in the midst of a broken window. Because I KNOW these things in my head, but applying them means a complete restructuring of my thoughts and my life.
Duh, right? But I’m good at the material, and I’m not so good at the serving. How do I use my talents to glorify God, then? How do these dreams and desires inside of me equate within the dreams and desires God has for my life? I just know I can’t spend my life perpetuating the cycle of materialism and physical obsession.

I can’t do it.

So now what?

Liquid Lust

Everyone wants or wants to be the whore. We wouldn’t call her that, of course. She would be mysterious and difficult, but still sexually available. You know she has “experience.” If we stop and think rationally, of course this seems ludicrous. But we’re not talking about rationality. We’re talking about desires. All the girls want to be her because all the guys want to win her. She’s sexy. But she’s subconsciously an object. To be or to possess. Even the good Christian guys admit, when desire overwhelms rational thought, it’s that girl they want. The one who seems untouchable, but who everyone has touched. And even the good Christian girls want to be her, because there’s a lure of being desired and relentlessly pursued. The culture tells us sex is the pleasure upon which everything else in the world hinges. It is the display of our status and wealth. It can make or destroy you. There are only consequences if you get caught. Sex is the only reason you are possibly going to be desirable. Who pursues the prude? We have become a culture dripping in lust. And no one is exempt from it. No one. Men objectify women and women objectify themselves. We have stopped fighting, and we’ve started to believe. Even those who attempt to push strongly against the culture push back because they feel the drips on their skin. It’s not righteousness that drives them, but the fear of being overwhelmed. Sex is either our god or our demon.

But wasn’t it supposed to be something beautiful?
Wasn’t it supposed to be something holy,
Not dirty?
We have polluted its name
We have made it our idol
Like Hosea, You find yourself
Married to us,
The prostitute.
The willing whore.
Forgive us,
Not for the desire,
But for the misuse
And abuse
And excuse
We’ve made the desire.
We drown in the liquid lust
Of our culture.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
And it glides down our skin.
Savior, rescue us from our sin.
And help us to learn to love again