Thursday, December 29, 2011
I live 9:15 miles away from the place I consider home. The drive from Corbett Oregon to Billings Montana took me about 14 hours of driving, with a six hour nap and 4 gas/potty breaks. Tomorrow I will move into my own studio apartment, and will bet he only resident. I have no family and few friends in my new city, but still am happy to be here.
I moved to Montana because I got a job that I like. Working as a youth pastor is infinitely better than holding down two minimum wage jobs just to pay off student loans and get by in life. Now I make a little bit more money than I did, work about half the hours, and actually enjoy what I do, which consists of hanging out with kids and talking about Jesus. Not a bad deal. Moving so far away from the ocean and so absurdly high in elevation (3.5k ft.) is a big step for me. I'm the kind of person who considered his family his best friends, especially my siblings. They all live either in LA or around Portland Oregon where we all grew up (actually we grew up in the country east of Portland, but no one knows where Corbett is so saying "around Portland" usually gives a better picture of where I'm talking about). The distance between what is familiar and where I am is nearing the greatest its ever been, and is beyond the point of my comfort.
If you've not realized it, there are a lot of things which I am unsure about, and even more that I miss. the countering balance to these drawbacks is that I believe I am supposed to be here. The place I have arrived at is one which will allow me to improve the quality of other people's lives, all the while bring able to work on my personal insecurities , foibles, and general improvement. I also will be able to spend time writing and reading, the two most time destroying addictions of my life.
That is all to say, I am scared, anxious, excited for, and content with where I am at in life. I expect to see myself grow and make some changes I have been hoping hoping for. One of those being updating my blog more often, so you can look forward to more of my rambling insight on things that maybe I only care about, but probably not.
As always, I appreciate feedback, and more is to come.
- "Pastor" (I'm highly amused by the title) Jed
Monday, September 19, 2011
Completeness
And finally it can be concluded that nothing ever surpasses completion. And it is undeniably true that all things have failed to achieve even this basic form of efficausity. Existence Is a work in progress, and that progress leads to a destination which will either provide us with a new goal to reach, or will be the end of all.
The end cannot be a location because it is the end, the nothing cannot be something. The word itself exists only so we have a name for an unknown. It’s kindred are, so I would think; infinity, never, eternity, and completely. We do not and cannot know these things because they are beyond our understandings. Which might explain why it has been tried so many times by people greater in intellect than myself to hold these things in the confining grip of understanding. To know something is to limit it.
We stare at the stars with the same eyes used to watch the ocean. Waves come in amounts I call limitless as stars hang at heights I cannot measure in volumes I would not care to count, and still I would try. Maybe that’s why things like poetry and music intrigue me as much as they do (I must apologize to the artists who sculpt, paint, dance, or so on because I am more limited than most in my appreciation for these forms of beauty).
Art is tied to emotion. Emotion, and I believe the poets are to thank, we link to our soul; and our soul is what we are when stripped down. We are beings who are drawn to the infinite not because we want to master the untameable, but because the unreachable calls to us. It is the something that adds worth to who and what we are. It is the destination. And because that destination is itself infinite it can never be reached. We simply can’t touch it with the tools that we have been given, yet allt he same the human soul will not be content willout it. So what then are we left with? Feeble attempts at philosophy, theologies of religion, self improvement, experiences of pleasure or pain, and desire.
Whatever we, the human, could once do to satisfy our hope is no longer viable, lust and want have put away hope for the time. Then what of our efforts to arrive at the destination? They are hopeless. It is my conclusion, and I have spent more time than most of my ages considering this, that it is not up to us to complete this journey.
As I’ve said, the destination calls to us. Just as our nature longs to be with the infinite, so does the destination desire for us to journey with it. So it calls us with our emotions by painting its beauty, both simple and infinite in the soul of the human.
For my part, I have concluded that humility is among the first steps which must be taken to obtain understanding. We must realize that the destination is unreachable, that the infinite is uncontainable, that the eternal will not allow itself to be measure, and that this is in part a point to the journey. It was meant to be this way
The end cannot be a location because it is the end, the nothing cannot be something. The word itself exists only so we have a name for an unknown. It’s kindred are, so I would think; infinity, never, eternity, and completely. We do not and cannot know these things because they are beyond our understandings. Which might explain why it has been tried so many times by people greater in intellect than myself to hold these things in the confining grip of understanding. To know something is to limit it.
We stare at the stars with the same eyes used to watch the ocean. Waves come in amounts I call limitless as stars hang at heights I cannot measure in volumes I would not care to count, and still I would try. Maybe that’s why things like poetry and music intrigue me as much as they do (I must apologize to the artists who sculpt, paint, dance, or so on because I am more limited than most in my appreciation for these forms of beauty).
Art is tied to emotion. Emotion, and I believe the poets are to thank, we link to our soul; and our soul is what we are when stripped down. We are beings who are drawn to the infinite not because we want to master the untameable, but because the unreachable calls to us. It is the something that adds worth to who and what we are. It is the destination. And because that destination is itself infinite it can never be reached. We simply can’t touch it with the tools that we have been given, yet allt he same the human soul will not be content willout it. So what then are we left with? Feeble attempts at philosophy, theologies of religion, self improvement, experiences of pleasure or pain, and desire.
Whatever we, the human, could once do to satisfy our hope is no longer viable, lust and want have put away hope for the time. Then what of our efforts to arrive at the destination? They are hopeless. It is my conclusion, and I have spent more time than most of my ages considering this, that it is not up to us to complete this journey.
As I’ve said, the destination calls to us. Just as our nature longs to be with the infinite, so does the destination desire for us to journey with it. So it calls us with our emotions by painting its beauty, both simple and infinite in the soul of the human.
For my part, I have concluded that humility is among the first steps which must be taken to obtain understanding. We must realize that the destination is unreachable, that the infinite is uncontainable, that the eternal will not allow itself to be measure, and that this is in part a point to the journey. It was meant to be this way
Help these hands to write
Help these hands to write the words you want my life to speak.
Make me the one who shouts when the voiceless can’t be heard.
Create in me the mind knows your heart.
Bind my hands with the strength of serving you.
Punish me with correction
that comes from love.
Empower my weakness by your strength.
Call me though I refuse to listen.
Pursue me when I run.
Be the balance to who I am.
Teach me though I learn poorly.
Stand me up even though I’d rather sit stagnant.
Show me what my distracted eyes are missing.
Illuminate my darkened soul.
Complete me where I think I’m whole.
Please fulfill me where I’m sure I’m full.
Be you
so I can be me.
Allow my life to tell a small truth
of what is you.
Make me the one who shouts when the voiceless can’t be heard.
Create in me the mind knows your heart.
Bind my hands with the strength of serving you.
Punish me with correction
that comes from love.
Empower my weakness by your strength.
Call me though I refuse to listen.
Pursue me when I run.
Be the balance to who I am.
Teach me though I learn poorly.
Stand me up even though I’d rather sit stagnant.
Show me what my distracted eyes are missing.
Illuminate my darkened soul.
Complete me where I think I’m whole.
Please fulfill me where I’m sure I’m full.
Be you
so I can be me.
Allow my life to tell a small truth
of what is you.
El Caminos and Attraction
My life has never been much of a love letter. I would like it to be, but for whatever reason this is among the unfulfilled desires in my life. I sometimes think about how awesome it would be if I were one of the sporty guys, who was built either more muscular or slimmer than myself. I would have a great tan because I’d have no problem taking my shirt off to jog, or play soccer or something. Girls would of course dig me because I was cut and a stud on the field. I’d probably also have a car that works, instead of my busted ’71 Volkswagen, and be a lot less awkward. I might know how to swing dance and be able to name popular musicians outside of country music or Ke$ha (I’m still confused as to how she got famous), and maybe I would not have such a hard time making eye contact or paying attention. I could probably even handle being touched by people. And the list of wonderful attributes fantasy-athlete Jed possesses goes on.
A big problem with fantasy Jed is that I keep comparing him to the real one, and I try to introduce us, but we refuse to get along. It seems that the real and ideal are not made to mesh when the idealistic version of our self is made from our own imaginations. That’s probably because we are not perfect, and so it stands to reason that what we create cannot be perfect. All the same, a lot of my time is spent wishing I were more like fantasy Jed. Even when I’m doing cool things like MMA or weight training, I’m forced to think of how much better I could be doing if I’d erased just one item from the “if I would have” list that makes up my past. Of course that extends beyond just physical things.
When I am most unlike the dream version of me is when I’m trying to relate to people. You see normal people don’t need to remind themselves constantly that it’s appropriate to look at someone while talking, instead of glancing around the room, and that eye contact is better than staring at where the chin and the neck meet. I do. And there are a lot of other nuisances about myself that rub me the wrong way. I can only assume that people I talk to find my behavior somewhat odd, and possibly outright awkward.
And all of these foibles seem to be magnified times a lot whenever romance is thrown into the mix. Girls seem to like guys who resemble fantasy me, and not many dream of comic book collecting novice theologians who work at Walgreens, and it would be really weird if they did. My identity isn’t reduced to those two things, but when I think about what the ladies are looking for, I don’t seem to come up with a lot of checks in the “he has this cool feature” box. And from what I know about it, which isn’t very much, dating is like care shopping. There are sports cars, which are the fantasy Jed’s. Then there are SUV’s, which are less appealing but can handle hard and rugged terrain, then the minivans, trucks, used cars, and the ever so strange El Camino. Now, all of the cars are meant for a specific kind of customer and can pair up great with what that person needs, except the El Camino.
The El Camino is this weird half car half truck enigma that is too small to be much good as a truck, and too truckish to be excellent cars. Now, it’s important for me to mention that I don’t know much about cars, especially when it comes to the engine. For all I know the clunker could be the best sudan and truck ever built, combined into one. My evaluation is based completely on what I’ve seen of the car and not on what it can do (In case your dense, I’m using what’s called a metaphor here). I have always been slightly fond of the El Camino just because the car is so ugly and odd.
When it comes down to it, I’m not a great athlete or romantic, but I am me. I am crafted for a purpose that is a heck of a lot more of a something than a El Camino can do. And who I am is not determined, based upon, or even very much connected to my appeal to the softer sex. It is who I am before God (the master mechanic, if you will). And my guess is that his evaluation of me, and I suppose you is well, is much more favorable and based on a better insight than my own estimation. I take comfort in that.
A big problem with fantasy Jed is that I keep comparing him to the real one, and I try to introduce us, but we refuse to get along. It seems that the real and ideal are not made to mesh when the idealistic version of our self is made from our own imaginations. That’s probably because we are not perfect, and so it stands to reason that what we create cannot be perfect. All the same, a lot of my time is spent wishing I were more like fantasy Jed. Even when I’m doing cool things like MMA or weight training, I’m forced to think of how much better I could be doing if I’d erased just one item from the “if I would have” list that makes up my past. Of course that extends beyond just physical things.
When I am most unlike the dream version of me is when I’m trying to relate to people. You see normal people don’t need to remind themselves constantly that it’s appropriate to look at someone while talking, instead of glancing around the room, and that eye contact is better than staring at where the chin and the neck meet. I do. And there are a lot of other nuisances about myself that rub me the wrong way. I can only assume that people I talk to find my behavior somewhat odd, and possibly outright awkward.
And all of these foibles seem to be magnified times a lot whenever romance is thrown into the mix. Girls seem to like guys who resemble fantasy me, and not many dream of comic book collecting novice theologians who work at Walgreens, and it would be really weird if they did. My identity isn’t reduced to those two things, but when I think about what the ladies are looking for, I don’t seem to come up with a lot of checks in the “he has this cool feature” box. And from what I know about it, which isn’t very much, dating is like care shopping. There are sports cars, which are the fantasy Jed’s. Then there are SUV’s, which are less appealing but can handle hard and rugged terrain, then the minivans, trucks, used cars, and the ever so strange El Camino. Now, all of the cars are meant for a specific kind of customer and can pair up great with what that person needs, except the El Camino.
The El Camino is this weird half car half truck enigma that is too small to be much good as a truck, and too truckish to be excellent cars. Now, it’s important for me to mention that I don’t know much about cars, especially when it comes to the engine. For all I know the clunker could be the best sudan and truck ever built, combined into one. My evaluation is based completely on what I’ve seen of the car and not on what it can do (In case your dense, I’m using what’s called a metaphor here). I have always been slightly fond of the El Camino just because the car is so ugly and odd.
When it comes down to it, I’m not a great athlete or romantic, but I am me. I am crafted for a purpose that is a heck of a lot more of a something than a El Camino can do. And who I am is not determined, based upon, or even very much connected to my appeal to the softer sex. It is who I am before God (the master mechanic, if you will). And my guess is that his evaluation of me, and I suppose you is well, is much more favorable and based on a better insight than my own estimation. I take comfort in that.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Mick D's
I find it worthy of my time to comment on the place I'm at in life. Metaphorically, that is. Locationally I'm at a table in McDonald's, regretting eating a double cheeseburger since it pushed me to the edge of today's calorie limit, and its hardly past noon. In life, I'm soon to be 23 years old with a bachelors degree and a part time job at Walgreen's, though part time has thankfully meant 40 hours a week lately. I'm loosing weight, as I'm sure you guessed from my dietary comment earlier, training in mixed martial arts, living in a sweet house with some great, if not insane, roommates, and am pretty content with the social life I have. However, this is not where I imagined I'd be after 16 some (if you count the four I spent homeschooling) years of academic study.
My biggest problem with working retail is that it allows little time to stop on the job for introspection, and I have to act nice when customers decide that displaying the emotional maturity of a toddler is appropriate. I would much rather be working in a field I studied at the collegiate level; communications or ministry. But reality and the ideal rarely intersect, and if they do I imagine it would either be lovely or boring. I'll let you know which if ever I find myself in such circumstances. All that is to say; I am thankfull for where I'm at, and especially the work I've been getting. But it's a not where I've thought I'd be at this age.
It is frustrating that I endured Junior high, which was the worst two years of my life, four years of high school, and worked (not suffered) through undergraduate school for this. Now, my growth in maturity and social abilities have been substantial, especially during college. But what good does that do me right now? I am well aware of the mindsets which usually great this question, and find them of little worth. To think of where I'm at as a waiting room truly robs today of it's value. To say that I'm not looking hard enough insults me, and if the audacious among you would suggest something along the lines of my hubris showing or that I need to be thankful for where I'm at, start paying attention.
I can't get it out of my head that I have always been meant for something more (not other) than what I am doing. Now that I am done learning in the classroom, at least for now, I ask; what could be done differently to ignite the telos in me waiting to burn? I would not be surprised if this whole time something has been in the works that I've missed, I hope that's the case anyway. But it becomes hard to not be flustered in fear of this time being wasted. All the same, I write this because I am confident that I've many peers standing where I do. A good number of folks my age are probably fine working a job so they can fulfill their purpose outside of the workplace, but I am forced to admit I am not one of them. I do have the advantage of believing in a deity, and a kind one at that. I cling to the hope that this God is working something in me that will soon make itself known, but I will have to wait and see if this hope has been misplaced.
My biggest problem with working retail is that it allows little time to stop on the job for introspection, and I have to act nice when customers decide that displaying the emotional maturity of a toddler is appropriate. I would much rather be working in a field I studied at the collegiate level; communications or ministry. But reality and the ideal rarely intersect, and if they do I imagine it would either be lovely or boring. I'll let you know which if ever I find myself in such circumstances. All that is to say; I am thankfull for where I'm at, and especially the work I've been getting. But it's a not where I've thought I'd be at this age.
It is frustrating that I endured Junior high, which was the worst two years of my life, four years of high school, and worked (not suffered) through undergraduate school for this. Now, my growth in maturity and social abilities have been substantial, especially during college. But what good does that do me right now? I am well aware of the mindsets which usually great this question, and find them of little worth. To think of where I'm at as a waiting room truly robs today of it's value. To say that I'm not looking hard enough insults me, and if the audacious among you would suggest something along the lines of my hubris showing or that I need to be thankful for where I'm at, start paying attention.
I can't get it out of my head that I have always been meant for something more (not other) than what I am doing. Now that I am done learning in the classroom, at least for now, I ask; what could be done differently to ignite the telos in me waiting to burn? I would not be surprised if this whole time something has been in the works that I've missed, I hope that's the case anyway. But it becomes hard to not be flustered in fear of this time being wasted. All the same, I write this because I am confident that I've many peers standing where I do. A good number of folks my age are probably fine working a job so they can fulfill their purpose outside of the workplace, but I am forced to admit I am not one of them. I do have the advantage of believing in a deity, and a kind one at that. I cling to the hope that this God is working something in me that will soon make itself known, but I will have to wait and see if this hope has been misplaced.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Talking To A Coat Rack
Who ever thought you were a good idea?
Or thought of you at all.
You've too many arms, too thin a frame,
and legs that are too short to move at all
You hold my hats and coats and all,
but such a job to do is small.
Taller height than mine, you work just fine.
But talks with you are a waste of time.
But then,
If I did my job half as well as thine,
then I'd live a life so sublime.
But then what purpose now and here is mine?
What shields to warmth and roofs from sun,
can I uphold. my job when done.
What purpose great, so grand so bold.
Am I of worth or from broken a mold.
What jobs I do are only those I'm told.
A telos life yet to unfold.
My purpse will remain to stand here,
waiting for a hand on mine, to take me someplace, somewhere,
sometime.
There is a task out there that's mine.
I'll find it, and then
my fate will shine.
Or thought of you at all.
You've too many arms, too thin a frame,
and legs that are too short to move at all
You hold my hats and coats and all,
but such a job to do is small.
Taller height than mine, you work just fine.
But talks with you are a waste of time.
But then,
If I did my job half as well as thine,
then I'd live a life so sublime.
But then what purpose now and here is mine?
What shields to warmth and roofs from sun,
can I uphold. my job when done.
What purpose great, so grand so bold.
Am I of worth or from broken a mold.
What jobs I do are only those I'm told.
A telos life yet to unfold.
My purpse will remain to stand here,
waiting for a hand on mine, to take me someplace, somewhere,
sometime.
There is a task out there that's mine.
I'll find it, and then
my fate will shine.
Sea Of Humanity
Your surrounded by a sea of faces, but only one belongs to me.
I watch you walk by and stair into the face of destiny.
A broken face worn by a broken man stops in a moment of pain to great another like it,
but not the same.
Eyes lock as I try to tear mine away from a sentence
pronounced by my lips and performed by my hand is carried upon another's back
a destination above where I now stand.
The blow brings you back to your knees as you utter in broken words what your attacker assumes are curses,
I am closer and hear your prayer.
Forced back to standing, you continue marching on towards my grave.
I follow in your footprints,
filled with blood that should be mine.
A woman to my left is crying,
men around her mock and say she has no business standing at this man's execution.
In a moment of recognition I see that she alone has a right to share this man's death.
She who had given him life
would see it bled out of him tonight.
When I reach the place I can no longer see you, but the woman to my left
is now on my shoulder as her tears seep through my sleeve
to my heart.
Her tears clear a path for us as I see you raised above our heads
with your title appropriately written above your crown.
How had I missed their hands when they fixed you to your,
to my fate.
Two who are unworthy are above the rest as they are raised besides you,
The day's light bled away as we watched you.
At last I hear you say "here is your mother"
and cry again to the one you only deserve to address as father.
I watch those who you'd just forgive
stab your now dead side.
I hold your mother and now mine as she collapses into arms, which
unlike my heart still carry strength
My mind races as my heart comes to a stop to find why.
This was not your fate
it was mine.
It would not be on that day or the one to follow that I understood what you'd done.
Three days later, I again would stair into the face of destiny,
as you look back at the one belonging to me.
You sent them to fish in a sea to rescue yours, those called humanity.
I watch you walk by and stair into the face of destiny.
A broken face worn by a broken man stops in a moment of pain to great another like it,
but not the same.
Eyes lock as I try to tear mine away from a sentence
pronounced by my lips and performed by my hand is carried upon another's back
a destination above where I now stand.
The blow brings you back to your knees as you utter in broken words what your attacker assumes are curses,
I am closer and hear your prayer.
Forced back to standing, you continue marching on towards my grave.
I follow in your footprints,
filled with blood that should be mine.
A woman to my left is crying,
men around her mock and say she has no business standing at this man's execution.
In a moment of recognition I see that she alone has a right to share this man's death.
She who had given him life
would see it bled out of him tonight.
When I reach the place I can no longer see you, but the woman to my left
is now on my shoulder as her tears seep through my sleeve
to my heart.
Her tears clear a path for us as I see you raised above our heads
with your title appropriately written above your crown.
How had I missed their hands when they fixed you to your,
to my fate.
Two who are unworthy are above the rest as they are raised besides you,
The day's light bled away as we watched you.
At last I hear you say "here is your mother"
and cry again to the one you only deserve to address as father.
I watch those who you'd just forgive
stab your now dead side.
I hold your mother and now mine as she collapses into arms, which
unlike my heart still carry strength
My mind races as my heart comes to a stop to find why.
This was not your fate
it was mine.
It would not be on that day or the one to follow that I understood what you'd done.
Three days later, I again would stair into the face of destiny,
as you look back at the one belonging to me.
You sent them to fish in a sea to rescue yours, those called humanity.
Monday, January 31, 2011
The train to Grandpa's funeral
A ticket bought online is dispensed by a machine
that, unlike the teller
is not separated from me by a sheet of glass
I board the train with a suitcase
weighing the sum of three loads of laundry and a canned coffee
Once on board seats stair at me
which hold riders who refuse to look back
A conductor passes by.
and I hand him everything he will ever need to know about me
on a unsigned piece of paper
watching as he hands it back with little interest
My name and I stair at each other momentarily
A girl my age is searching for a seat
I move my bag to silently offer her one of the few left unfilled
on this lonely train
which she refuses by pretending not to notice
my bag reclaims the empty seat next to me
I put on my headphones
to help me in the game of hiding don’t speak
The train disappears behind Jack Johnson
I text my sister. “Leaving Eugene. In Portland at eight
Talk to you then”
I look out my window as a world of sheep blurs by
where people are only talked to when not traveling to a funeral
and those who try to break down our silent walls
are the greatest offenders
of life not lived alone
that, unlike the teller
is not separated from me by a sheet of glass
I board the train with a suitcase
weighing the sum of three loads of laundry and a canned coffee
Once on board seats stair at me
which hold riders who refuse to look back
A conductor passes by.
and I hand him everything he will ever need to know about me
on a unsigned piece of paper
watching as he hands it back with little interest
My name and I stair at each other momentarily
A girl my age is searching for a seat
I move my bag to silently offer her one of the few left unfilled
on this lonely train
which she refuses by pretending not to notice
my bag reclaims the empty seat next to me
I put on my headphones
to help me in the game of hiding don’t speak
The train disappears behind Jack Johnson
I text my sister. “Leaving Eugene. In Portland at eight
Talk to you then”
I look out my window as a world of sheep blurs by
where people are only talked to when not traveling to a funeral
and those who try to break down our silent walls
are the greatest offenders
of life not lived alone
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