..::On Kenosis::..

Contrary to popular belief, I’ve had my fair share of flings in the art of adolescent seduction. Nothing to write a novel about or anything; just your run of the mill affair with the predictable overly-dramatic heartbreaking finale that ought to leave one reluctant to revisit such an experience again, but inevitably makes you insatiably desire more developmentally preparatory pseudo-romantic relations. You know I’m right.

My first girlfriend’s name was Leslie Thompson. We were in Pre-K and used to hold hands on the playground. Once we shared an ice cream cone at a Halloween Carnival. I have a picture to prove it. We were pretty serious. Her dad owned a Radio Shack, and I have no idea where she is today.

I don’t know why I just said all that.

I imagine we’ve all had our fair share of childhood romps with love, but I like to think that I’m slightly more experienced than most. A sort of compensation on the other end of the spectrum to make up for the fact that at present I’m the most pathetic person in the world.

Back to what I was saying... I was one suave toddler. On more than one occasion females swooned over my chubby cheeks and thick brown hair. Just ask my mom. I could control a room with giggles and antics for hours on end. It really wasn’t fair to all the other children I imagine, but its a dog eat dog world. I was an adorable force to be reckoned with (still am if you ask me). But I guess all the cuddliness and charisma went to my top-heavy head, because in those days, cupid’s arrow aimed a little higher than my neighborhood peers or classmates. More often than not, I directed my affections toward any particular evening’s caregiver.

When I was little, my parent’s affinity for the two-step regularly gave my brother and I the opportunity to spend an evening with whichever one of my mom’s friend’s daughters needed some extra cash and had nothing else to do on a Saturday night. On one particular evening my mom ordered us a pizza, and we all had dinner together before my parents went out. The babysitter arrived at the house around 7:30, and I was already zipping around in my superman pajamas. I must admit, there was something empowering about that red cape. When it was Velcro-ed to my shoulders no female was safe. I was certain that by the end of the evening babysitter chick and I would be cuddled up watching The Fox and the Hound. I was money.

Unfortunately for me and for her, I’ve never been really good with any combination of excitement, nerves and edibles (just ask that carnival worker at the Angelina County Fall Festival `96), and this time would be no different. At one point in the evening it seemed that no amount of charm or cuteness was going to attract the attention of this particular babysitter because she kept talking on the phone and didn’t seem to notice me diving/”flying” back and forth from couch to couch. I was freaking superman, and she had the audacity not to be impressed.

Women...

Well, before I knew it or was able to prevent it from happening, my stomach gave me notice that the pizza I had consumed earlier in the evening was about to have an encore. So, I did what any child would do in this situation. I immediately cupped both hands over my mouth and frantically ran all over the house mutedly screaming, “Mhhmmm, Mhhmmmm!” Finally, when the romantically irresponsive ho-bag noticed me, she came running over to find out what was wrong.

And then I threw up on her.

It seems like this story has played itself over and over in my life in one metaphorical way or another: Boy meets girl, boy vomits on girl.

I screw things up a lot. I make a fool of myself trying to impress people or keep their, and most of the time I think I just plain make things worse. And I guess this could apply to following Jesus, because I screw that up a lot too. Like Peter I have the stones to ask Jesus to command me to come out on the water, but once I get out their I almost get myself killed. But I still I think Jesus beckons me (even foolish me) to come, serve and experience. Despite my tendency to screw things up or make things bass ackwards, Jesus is more than willing to work alongside this feeble humanity of mine.

I'm grateful for this.

Because it just so happens that this God that I serve has a thing for sinners, and I sure do like his taste.

(mandatory spiritual tie-in over)

jared.

Labels: ho-bags, jesus, short stories

Posted by jared slack at Wednesday, September 26, 2007 | Permalink | Comments

My mom tugged us along by our arms as we approached the church through the courtyard. Mass started at 8, and my mother hated showing up after things got started because people stared. As we pushed through the doors the thick aroma of mahogany, incense, and silence met me as my eyes began to scour the back few rows. I soon zeroed in on my Grandma, who had already found her seat and was praying, and began frantically tugging at the hem of my mom’s dress informing her that it was time to release my hand. I insisted on sitting with my Grandmother each week. I am sure I brought tears to onlooker’s eyes as they watched me frantically climb into her lap and take my time settling in at her side just as the priest began his spiel. This was all very heart warming to watch. A kid who sits with his grandma every Sunday is straight up Hallmark, and I am sure you were all swooning at the mental image of me snuggling up beside her. If only I had a picture...

I’ll be honest. My intentions were not pure. The only reason I was so adamant about sitting with her was because she had butterscotch, lots and lots of butterscotch. Her purse was like that bag from Mary Poppins; her hand never came back empty when she reached inside. She and I had an understanding. In exchange for my silence she would give me candy. It was the way things were done, even if it was a little Pavlovian. She raised 5 kids; she must know what she’s doing.

The candy exchange would do its thing for a while, but inevitably, I would lose interest with my obedience and the sweetness of the candy in my mouth wasn’t payment enough for me to sit still. My fidgety little body would sliver down into the space between the pews and crawl around; weaving, and contorting myself around the legs of my family and any person within squirming distance, imagining I was being chased by bad guys using anything I could for cover. Within moments, without fail, my imagination would take me over causing some sort of World War II period special effect sound to erupt from my mouth loud enough for people across the aisle to look over and notice the chubby kid peering from behind the kneeling bench aiming an imaginary rifle at their foreheads.

I’m kind of embarrassed to even talk about this.

I can still feel the sting of my grandmother’s fingers toned to hardened steel from years of needlework and pea shelling as they clamped onto my ear lobe, (I was cursed with large lobes, they were a convenient handle on many occasions) and yanked me back into my seat.

Excursio...
Contrary to what you might believe, I do love the Mass. For many reasons in fact. One being that it’s so deliberate and slow. Every week it is like a romance. You enter in, things are a little awkward at first, and you even catch yourself getting bored for a bit. Everything inside you wants to rush ahead to all the physical stuff, but something inside you convinces you that your patience will pay off in the end. You find that the other person can be a little long-winded. They seem to be so self-involved. You’re really not all that interested at first, but then things begin to get better. You realize that all the self-interest, was actually self-disclosure. They just wanted you to know their intentions, to comfort you and open you up to being honest and bearing yourself. You begin to participate more, taking cues from them. You’re comfort level is rising. Finally, there’s back and forth banter. They speak, and somehow you know what to say back. You begin to feel even more comfortable with one another, comfortable enough to touch hands from across the table. You open up, you let each other in on your faults, and you soon realize that they weren’t really that big of a deal in the first place. There is acceptance, love, respect, and grace. And it all culminates in this wonderful celebration. The union of two persons into this one co-dependent thing commemorated by the breaking of bread and the sipping of wine is a beautiful thing. It’s all very involved and emotional, and you really don’t know how in the world you’ll ever be able to do it again. But somehow you find yourself there again; ready to pick up where you left off. For me, this is the Mass.

Back to the story...
Call it what you will, but every Sunday the planets seemed to align. At the very instance that my squirming, imaginative self was abruptly reintroduced into the Mass the priest and the community were preparing to receive communion. I always enjoyed getting to see what was going on so my grandmother would stand me up on the pew next to her. With my new vantage point, our faces were now at the same level, and she would draw me in close so I my ears could receive her voice. The congregation would respond in unison. Even though her response was with the rest of the congregation, I know she was speaking to me. Lord, have mercy. I could hear the priest’s voice in the background, and she would respond. Lord, have mercy. My rambling mind came to a standstill as I heard the words over and over. Lord, have mercy. Her voice is gentle, frail, and piercing all at the same time. Lord, have mercy. There is an ineffable emotion behind every syllable as each consonant receives its due attention, as if mistreating one would make the rest worthless. Lord, have mercy. My grandmother was praying for me, herself, and for the whole world. Lord, have mercy.

I’m not too good at prayer. I’ve become so mired by all the fanciness of big words, and impressive spiritual banter it seems that all the richness I experienced earlier in life has been sucked out of the discipline. Lord, have mercy.

More often than not my prayers are a chasing after the words that I don’t have. I sit/lie there in silence agonizing over my inability to be more vocal when I communicate with God. But I find that I have all the emotions and passion I could ever need. They reside in my heart, pain, joy, agony, disappointment, love, and insecurity. These are my prayers. The moments I spend in silence trying to fall asleep, as the emotions of the day rush over me. There are but few words that do justice to them all. Lord, have mercy.

Labels: jesus, life, prayer, short stories

Posted by jared slack at Tuesday, April 10, 2007 | Permalink | Comments

In theory this sounds good.

I’ve been around lots of “new” lately and it’s making me ill. It’s not that I hate new and those who get to have it. It’s that my overwhelming love and desire for new combined with the abounding lack of it in my life causes me to live with an insalubrious (new word, just learned yesterday – it fits... I promise) hope for something better that just might be around the bend.

“New” mocks me.

Let me be honest. I like new. I want new. I need new. Why you ask? Because “new” brings about possibility. The possibility that the person we are today might become just slightly improved by morning. Now that sounds pretty good. Maybe the me of tomorrow will be in love, know what he wants to do with his life, and have a new Mac.

Now I understand that apathy has become sort of “my thing” as of late: questioning everything, wandering aimlessly, seeking seclusion, and punctuating my day with disdainful exhales and all… but judge lest ye be judged bitches. I’m in a funk.

I’ve come to the only logical conclusion possible I suppose:

I need Jesus.

Now, hear me out. I’m not talking about the sappy, overly emotional, “opiate of the masses” Jesus, but the real Jesus: the Jesus who makes all things new, Jesus. I desperately need him to come along side this mess that I’ve made and help me tidy up a bit. I guess we all know what that’s like.

Now, don’t you go jumping to conclusions. I’m not depressed. I’m simply fed up. I’ve been spending entirely too much time trying to straighten up so Jesus can stop by. If I’m smarter than I think I am, I’ll just go sit next to the pile of dirty clothes I call "this life" and wait for company to arrive.

But let’s be honest. I’ve already started hiding things in the closet and shoving the mess under my bed.

Labels: jesus

Posted by jared slack at Sunday, February 11, 2007 | Permalink | Comments