Live

"You don't choose a life, you live one." Emilio Estevez -- The Way


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I tend to break life into categories and subcategories. As I sift through them and test them against our spiritual and moral mores, I begin to place them within a hierarchical structure. The "king" category for Christians is two fold: living within and for God's kingdom here on earth and in his eternal and heavenly kingdom. From this point on, things get messy.

The subcategories are endless. Based on our experiences, relationships, and denominational influences, we categorize what it actually means to fulfill the qualities of kingship. Some of the subcategories might be sacramental, missional, or moral.

Subconsciously (and sometimes consciously) I believe that my posture can only reside in one of the subcategories of life. Never, I mean never, can one foot be firmly planted in one category while the other foot is firmly and equally planted in another. Now, I commonly state that my life's focus is the "king" and the subcategories are ways in which I, in my God-given uniqueness, manifest kingship. I say, just as St. Augustine said, "unity in the essentials, liberty in the non-essentials, and love in all things," but in reality, I cement both feet into a subcategory.

In doing so, I make a choice about life. I view all possibilities, well, at least the ones I presently see, and choose which one fits my personality best. My mind, heart, and soul get wrapped up in this choice. Am I living by the choice I made? Is the choice I made the right choice? I see all these other people, ones who are esteemed in their subcategories, and judge myself (and them) based on their categorical choice. I mean, one  of us have to be in the wrong subcategory...right?!

I think Emilio was on to something.

Obsession with the choices you make, their rightness and wrongness, cause you to lose sight of the King. "I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly. I am the good shepherd; the good shepherd lays down His life for the sheep." This is the King's promise and purpose. Those who rest in this truth, whose two feet are firmly planted in the category of the king, lose themselves in the rest and love of the good shepherd and live a life. 


I pray God gives me the grace to forsake the subcategories of experience for the category of the King -- to never choose a life, but to live one. 

It's all about the Father

Direct us, O Lord, in all our doings with thy most gracious
favor, and further us with thy continual help; that in all our
works begun, continued, and ended in thee, we may glorify
thy holy Name, and finally, by thy mercy, obtain everlasting
life; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

(Prayer of the elder son)

A few years ago, multiple people I love told me to check out Tim Keller's book The Prodigal God. They said it was short (my favorite kind of book!) and succinct. They said it would shed some light on my nature -- a nature planted, tended, and cultivated within the confines of a faith based greenhouse. They said, "you are the elder son from the Prodigal Son story! Isn't it refreshing to know that?" I said, "Maybe, but who is the elder son?" And they replied, "exactly!"

Ok, I guess I should read it to figure out the meaning behind their cryptic advice...and I did. 

I went in with false expectations. I believed the book would radically alter they way I looked at myself. But in reality, and I am thankful for this, it just gave me a story to flip to when I needed to remember that I am not alone in my struggles. "Ah yes, the elder son. That is definitely me. Thank you God for giving me company as I carry this cross." This was no ah ha moment. No radical change occurred in my heart. The information was interesting, but that's about it. Now, my blasé attitude was not the fault of Keller. Many have been touched and enlightened by him bringing awareness to the elder son's part in the story. My heart just wasn't ready. I needed a different voice at a different time...

As I was perusing Half-Price Books a few months ago, you know, the behemoth you can get lost in off of NW Highway, I came across Henri Nouwen's The Return of the Prodigal Son. I picked it up, examined it. I mean, Rembrandt's artistic rendition of the parable graced itself on the cover so I must look at it, right? It was even the picture on my computer's desktop at the time! Fate or Providence?

I almost left it there to be purchased by another elder son, or even possibly a younger son. But I think it was $5.00, and I had heard many good things about Nouwen, so I splurged and purchased it. 

If you are an avid reader, very rarely does a book move you utter helplessness and vulnerability. Those moments of extreme revelation and destruction necessitate a collision between two forces: a tender heart and a life giving text. Over the years, Crime and Punishment, The Scarlet Letter, Blue Like Jazz, The Ragamuffin Gospel, The Problem of Pain, and The Cost of Discipleship have produced that kind of effect on me. Most recently, Nouwen's exposition of Rembrandt's painting and Jesus' parable tossed my heart up like a Livan Hernandez eephus pitch that Giancarlo Stanton was sitting on -- boom!

As much as my soul cried out "yes!" to his description of the elder son, and as much as my soul gave thanks to his honest reflection of his own heart bound to the darkness of the elder, he gently asks us, both the younger and elder son, to become something more -- the Father himself. 

"If the only meaning of the story were that people sin but God forgives, I could easily being to think of my sins as a fine occasion for God to show me his forgiveness. There would be no real challenge in such an interpretation. I would resign myself to my weaknesses and keep hoping that eventually God would close his eyes to them and let me come home, whatever I did. Such sentimental romanticism is not the message of the Gospels. What I am called to make true is that whether I am the younger or elder son, I am the son of my compassionate Father. I am an heir...Being in the Father's house requires that I make the Father's life my own and become transformed in his image."

Being the elder son, I normally take this to mean that I must continue to follow the law and moral decrees that God gives his people. Transformation often means the sanctification of my bad choices into good ones. But sanctification connotes much more. For the Father's goodness rested not in his personal morality, but in the extended arms of grace to his wayward son who returns home and his dutiful son who's heart steers clear of the hearth overflowing with the Father's joy. 

Before either son can become the Father, they must relinquish their own perception of sonship and rest comfortably in arms of the Father. The younger son, full of shame, tries to redeem himself by placing himself as a servant in his Father's court while the elder son only loves the Father when it benefits himself. Yet, the Father is there ready to offer his joy freely to both sons.

Many times in scripture, this joy manifests itself in a party or feast; "I am not used to the image of God throwing a big party. It seems to contradict the solemnity and seriousness I have always attached to God. But when I think about eh ways in which Jesus describes God's Kingdom, a joyful banquet is often at its center."

The fattened calf has been prepared in your honor. The best wine has been set at the table. Friends and neighbors have come to celebrate. The younger son, in all his passion and fervor, has discarded his desire to be a servant and has accepted the joy of the Father. The elder son resents both his Father and brother, but the offer of joy is there for his taking. The Father leaves the celebration to give his elder son the same opportunity of joy. If he rejects, he loses the beautiful gifts of sonship. If he accepts, he joins the Father in his household. 

To accept his joy is to be an heir to the Father, to claim fatherhood as your end desire. As an heir, I must now, like my Father, "dare to stretch out my own hands in blessing and to receive with ultimate compassion my children."

"As the Father, I have to dare to carry the responsibility of a spiritually adult person and dare to trust that the real joy and real fulfillment can only come from welcoming home those who have been hurt and wounded on their life's journey, and loving them with a love that neither asks nor expects anything in return."

I am called to recognize my elder brother-ness and pray for the grace to strip them from my heart in order to accept the joyous gift of love that God gives me. In doing so, I am freed to love like my Father loves -- with arms extended, full of grace for those in need of it. 

What is love? Baby, don't hurt me...

The Boy, Pinkie, only wanted one thing: to escape the pangs of love. At an early age, when he endured the sights and sounds of his parents' love in their tiny apartment, he dismissed its very notion as childish and subhuman. The very thought of its amorous qualities gagged him; the very thought of its philia characteristics drove him to murder. By receding from the love of others, he only loved himself. He did whatever it took to place himself in power and authority over others. He loved in a twisted manner.

Rose only wanted two things: to love and to be loved. She wanted to sacrifice her entire being -- mental, physical, and spiritual -- for another. It was her duty to do so. Her sacrifice was not intended for the betterness of the other, but instead, for the fulfillment of her soul. Her sacrificial, dutiful love gave her value, even if the value fell outside the bounds of her Catholic faith. Her love openly embraced eternal damnation at the price of a damned sacrifice that reaped false earthly value and satisfaction. She loved in a twisted manner.

Ida only wanted one thing: to love what is Right and Wrong. These transcendent axioms guided her life. Every move she made was predicated upon them. If an action does not fall under their umbrellas, participate in them completely. If an action infringes upon them, be a champion for what is Right and Wrong. Do whatever it takes to make sure those around you live within their rules. All of Ida's love went toward these truths. She didn't really love anyone. Her marriage failed and her current male companionship was only indulged upon for his sake. She loved in a twisted manner.

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In Graham Greene's Brighton Rock, the reader encounters these three unique characters. Each one has an ideal that determines the way in which they love. All three of these qualities are found in love, but they separated them from the very essence of love -- God.

In a desperate attempt to save his skin from prison, the Boy loves himself and his position of seeming power in Brighton so much that he kills his fellow gang members, marries the impressionable, sacrificial, dutiful Rose, and eventually tries to manipulate her to kill herself out of duty to him. Rose, because someone (the Boy) finally took notice of her, gave her entire soul to him: "I want to be like him -- damned." Whatever depths of evil he plunged to, she followed willingly behind him -- in duty and sacrifice to the love he obviously fabricated. Ida, on the other hand, adhered to an obscure notion of Right and Wrong, yet she had no foundations to determine the rightness or wrongness of any action. She was her own legislature, judge, and jury. She tried her best to save the young Rose from the Boy because she felt it was the Right thing to do.


Even the priest at the end, the only semblance of true faith, seemed disconnected and discontented: "the old head bent toward the grill [confession booth]. The priest had a whistle in his breath...the old priest had a cold and smelt of eucalyptus." In the moment of Rose's greatest peril and hope, in her moment of repentance, the priest told her to "come back soon -- I can't give absolution now -- but come back -- tomorrow."  The priest, who in Catholicism is man's advocate to God for his sins, fails to sacrifice his time and comfort in order to absolve Rose's sins. The reader never know if she goes back, but it is fair to assume she doesn't. I think it is also fair to assume she commits suicide after she encounters the "worst horror of them all" (a taped recording of her apparent "love", the Boy, speaking sweetly to her. Instead she will find this: "God damn you, you little bitch, why can't you go back home for ever and let me be?").

God is no where to be seen in these manifestations of love. Because of it, the Boy kills himself, Rose wants to follow him to damnation, and Ida feels no remorse for the Boy's death and goes to the ouiji board. 1 Corinthians clearly states that God is love. For to be loved by God and to love him and his people fully, one must love his own self, die to his own self for the sake of Christ, and follow God's commands and help those he loves to do the same.

I think we all, for the most part, love like the Boy, Rose, or Ida -- and even the priest. Yes, the picture of humanity's love that Greene paints is grotesque (Its fitting since Greene was good friends with Flannery O'Connor) and offensive, but his purpose is to draw our hearts inward to reflect and ask the question: do I love like the Boy? Rose? Ida? The priest?

When I initially read Brighton Rock, I only felt pity and fear for Rose. I didn't really connect with any of the characters. None of my sins, pains, or gifts seemed to be present. Usually, when that is the case, I drop the book and move to something else. My hope in reading novels is usually to be moved to a higher consciousness of my own broken and redeemed reality. But for some reason, even though I initially didn't recognize those features in Brighton Rock, I didn't do drop it. I pressed on. At the time, I felt like in some way or another I could save Rose if I kept reading -- which of course is ridiculous. But now I know why I really kept reading...

I'm frequently, and obviously, the Boy.

Who are you?

The Flake

"I will not serve that in which I no longer believe whether it call itself my home, my fatherland or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my defence the only arms I allow myself to use -- silence, exile, and cunning." -- Stephen Dedalus in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.

The ever-reliable Urban Dictionary website defines a flaky person as one who is "unreliable." Unreliability infers that a social contract was agreed upon between two parties with one of the parties failing to adhere to all it's requirements. This doesn't happen just once for an unreliable party, but multiple times.

Now, when we think of an unreliable individual, we usually think of their external unreliability -- their blatant disregard for an understood or physical social contract. But in the case of Stephen Dedalus, he breaks the internal contract between his heart and his mind. Throughout his life, from childhood to young adulthood (the end of the book), his mind drafts passionate contracts between itself and the heart . Over and over, they bind with an ideal, only for the eventual rupture of the contract.

We see him consumed with his father's nationalistic pride, yet we see him overtly rejecting nationalism. We see his religious fervor, yet we see his denial of God in his trouncing of the priestly order. Both his adherence to nationalism and religion, and his subsequent rejections of both, show his renunciation of his familial ideals. As the quote above says, he will no longer serve that which he does not believe -- home, country, church. The expression of himself will no longer rely upon those three contracts. His new contract is toward "unfettered freedom," which he believes to be obtainable through "silence, exile, and cunning."

From this point on, we do not know if Stephen finds satisfaction in this new contract. The book pretty much ends with the quote above. But what we do know is this: each contract was made with the assumption that its contents were true. Stephen believed that as the mind and heart were in harmony with its current perception of truth, then the eternal soul would be at peace.

Not too long ago, a person I love (cough mom cough) called me a flake. Her assertion might cause vitriol for some, especially in light of Stephen's flakiness, but I knew she was right. She has called me that before, along with other people, but after this most recent comment, I decided to spend some time reflecting upon it.

During this reflective season, I began reading the Songs of Ascent (Psalm 120-134) in a book/bible study with Wonder Voyage. We are examining each Psalm through the lens of Eugene Peterson's A Long Obedience in the Same Direction.

Psalm 121 is a Psalm we hear referenced in many worship songs: "I look up to the mountains / does my strength come from mountains? / No, my strength comes for God, / who made heaven, and earth, and mountains." Peterson's The Message makes an interesting distinction that is not found in the translation I usually read (NASB). The NASB reads as follows: "I will lift up my eyes to the mountains; / From where shall my help come? / My help comes from the LORD / Who made heaven and earth."


When I initially heard or read Psalm 121, I never viewed the Psalmist's response to his own question as a negative, like Peterson does with his use of "no" in is answer. The first two lines did not seem to be exclusive to me. They seemed inclusive. When the Psalmist finds his help and strength in God, the creator, I assumed he recognized God's help through the Romans 1 model of knowing God through his created nature. 


But Peterson brings to light an important historical note about pagan worship during the author's time to bring clarity to the Psalm:


"Much of this religion was practiced on hilltops. Shrines were set up, groves of trees were planted, sacred prostitutes both male and female were provided; persons were lured to the shrines to engage in acts of worship that would enhance the fertility of the land, would make you feel good, would protect you from evil."


His insertion of the word "no" causes us to orient ourselves back to God. The word "no" tears the gaze of our eyes from the instantaneous strength and help promised by the pagans onto the actual Creator, as the Psalmist later sings, who actually "guards your very life / he guards you when you leave and when you return, / he guards you now, he guards you always."


I find myself, in my flaky nature, always looking up to the mountains for help. I hope that through some new theological discovery, my soul will find the peace it is always looking for. My intellectual and spiritual curiosity has led me from the likes of Miller and Driscoll, to Lewis and Bonhoeffer, to Merton and Manning, to Peterson and etc....


But where is the Lord, the one who gives strength and help to those who ask?


I, in no way, recommend myself or anyone to remove themselves from theological thinkers and writers. But what I am saying is that I think I need to assimilate Louise Rosenblatt's transactional reading theory into my study of scripture. Rosenblatt states there are two different types of texts -- efferent and aesthetic. Efferent texts are ones you read for the sake of knowledge and understanding. Efferent texts would be history text books and computer manuals. Aesthetic texts move or transform the individual who encounters it, such as poetry and novels. 


I tend to look at scripture and read it efferently. What can I learn from it? What can I figure out about the mechanisms of God? I am always asking questions and examining definitions and sentence structures so I can have a fuller understanding of the author's meaning and purpose. And what a beautiful thing to do!


But am I reading the living and breathing word of God aesthetically? Do I engage its characters? suffer with them? love with them? serve with them? Do I activate my imagination in order to participate in its transforming ways? Not often...


Because I forsake the aesthetic pursuit of scripture, my house's foundation cracks. Where does my help come from? How can I fix the crack on the ceiling or the shifting tile in the kitchen? I hear the Maker of heaven and earth is pretty good at foundation repairs.


I will always search for the Truth like Stephen Dedalus did. My mind and heart will always make contracts with the hope of some sort of intellectual and spiritual satisfaction. But my ultimate joy and satisfaction does not rest in the knowledge I obtain about God, but it comes with the knowledge that he is my help; he is my strength; he is the one that guides me through life, even when I stray far from him.  


Praise God for his consistency in the midst of my flakiness!

Mission Trips to Oregon and Belize

Dear family and friends,

To serve through the avenue of Missions is a way one abides, remains, or continues on in their love of God.  As they serve, by the Grace of God, they reflect more and more the Image originally intended for them.

“…and every branch that bears fruit, He prunes it so that it may bear more fruit…Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself unless it abides in the vine, so neither can you unless you abide in me.”  (John 15:2, 4)

            This summer I am working for an organization called Wonder Voyage. Wonder Voyage is a non-profit, ecumenical, pilgrimage organization. Throughout the year, they lead mission trips and pilgrimages for youth groups and adults from over 14 different denominational backgrounds. Their philosophy is for pilgrims to experience the wonder of God’s presence, to dedicate selves to listening, learning, praying, and playing, and to give them the opportunity to serve on a specific mission defined by their leadership (Wonder Voyage Website).

I will be volunteering on two different trips. From June 16-22, I will be serving on a trip to Oregon, and from June 25-July 2, I will be serving on a trip to Belize. The total cost of both trips is $1800. 

I am raising support two ways. One way is through the traditional mission trip fundraising model which asks others to prayerfully consider giving their money to a cause they believe in. The other way is through the selling of coffee. If you would like, you can purchase a pound of coffee from me for $12.95. $4.00 of every pound sold will help fund my trips, while the other $8.95 goes to overseas missions, a church planting initiative in the U.S., and ministry to the broken, downtrodden, and the poor in the U.S. Each pound of coffee will be labeled individually for my trips so that as the coffee sits on your countertop, you will be reminded to pray for the students and leaders on the trips.

I humbly ask you to consider one or both of the options above. If you would like to partner with me by way of a “lump sum,” please send a check, written out to Wonder Voyage with my name in the “memo” line, to:  

Wonder Voyage

P.O. Box 2135

Coppell, TX 75019

If you would like to partner with me by purchasing a pound (or two or three) of “Justin McGee Mission Trip Coffee,” please fill out this quick and easy order form. http://tinyurl.com/7ovw6b3. As soon as I process it, I will send you an email confirming your order.

The first coffee pickup/delivery day will be Saturday, April 14th! Please place your orders with me through the order form above by Sunday, April 1st so I can let my coffee suppliers at Phoenix Community Coffee know the exact amount of coffee to pack. More information can be found on the order form.

            As much as I need money for these trips, I desperately need your prayers. Without the strength, power, and energy that emanates from the prayers of His people, my ability to lead and serve would suffer. Please lift up Wonder Voyage and the pilgrims as we serve and experience God through the mode of pilgrimage.

Through His Grace,

Justin McGee

The Yoke of Christ

“Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your soul. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light (Matthew 11:28-30).”


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One of my roommates and I were talking the other night about a host of things as the day wound down. One recurring topic centered on our task to follow Christ in some tangible, quantifiable way -- a way in which we can jot down each instance and point to God and say, "Look at what I have done for the Kingdom! The world is changing and changed because of this!" Praise God for the transformation of his people, through the work and efforts of those following him!

Skye Jethani refers to this posturing of the soul as a life lived for God. For most of us, this reality is seen as the ultimate telos (end) of existence. Once we reach this status (we believe), we finally become who God created us to be. We emphasize terms such as mission(al), evangelism, and social justice when we discuss the portrait of a Christian. Most likely, our hearts long for Africa or Asia or maybe even the homeless in our own community. Jesus and his disciples were on mission for the poor, so we must do the same. We must pine for those whom he pines for.

Personally, my soul usually remains in this state of being. I find myself, in moments (minutes/hours/days) of despair, reflecting upon my effectiveness as a tool of the Gospel. "Why don't I know more customers at Starbucks?" "Why am I not pouring into more students at TCA?" "Why am I not more social? I am missing opportunities because of introversion." "Why did I not help that homeless man on the street corner? I mean, he only asked for a buck."

The commonality in each question that swims through my head is the subject "I." The yoke of Christ, which should rest so gently upon my weary, sinful shoulders, weighs me down in the same way the stones weighed down Virginia Woolf. In reality, the thing in which I think is the yoke of Christ is really something else. It is the yoke of my perception of the Christian life. Work for the kingdom is accomplished.

"Some, to be sure, are preaching Christ even from envy and strife...What then? Only that in every way, whether in pretense or in truth, Christ is proclaimed; and in this I rejoice (Philippians 1)."


Even though my missional activity bears itself initially in my envy, strife, and pretense, Christ is still proclaimed. While I ponder and beat myself over the questions above, somehow and someway God uses me. I lead a life so unaware of my fellow man, yet by His grace, others occasionally see Christ in me.  


So...


Do I allow my soul to continuously and solely pursue the life for God posture, even though he uses us in it? By no means! 

The distinction needs to made that our end is not to live for God, but to live with God. A life with God can not flow from a life for God, but a life for God can most definitely flow from a life with God. Because we live so much within the for posture, we forget that "We were made not primarily that we may love God (though we were made for that too) but that God may love us, that we may become objects in which the Divine love may rest 'well pleased' (C.S. Lewis -- Problem of Pain)."


The recognition of God's love for us only drenches our soul by way of his gift of Grace. This realization shocks, yet soothes, the anxiety ridden life for God. Then, all of the sudden, with the sweat and blood still fresh from our toil, the yoke is virtually non-existent. You still work, but it is restful.


Have you ever met someone who laughed or scoffed at the notion that his job resembled our cultural definition of "work?" You know, they find so much joy in their labor that they lose themselves completely in their task and desire nothing more than to continue their task day in and day out?


So it is with the work derived from the yoke of Christ. You lose yourself to the point where you live out God's will unconsciously. Your desire to live for God fades away. All that remains is a soul that is with God, united at last, for a few breaths. 


Oh, but what a sweet few breaths!


Just as a breath comes and goes without any cognizant recollection of its existence, so does this yoke of Christ. For "perfect joy is possible only when we have completely forgotten ourselves. And it is only when we pay no more attention to our own deeds and our own reputation and our own excellence that we are at last completely free to serve God in perfection for his own sake alone" (Thomas Merton -- New Seeds of Contemplation). One within a life with God does not even realize they are in that posture. Their souls absorbs and reflects his love to such a degree that they move about their day unaware of themselves. The joy overflows and covers all aspects of their self, leaving them completely blind to their self.


But, in our fallen nature, we really pine for the yoke powered by our own strength. We love the tangibility of it. Yet, as our souls become tattered and beaten from our exhausting selves, God infuses us with his ever peaceful Grace. As Thomas Merton says:


"there are times in the life of a man when [living a life for God] can become an escape, an anodyne, a refuge from the responsibility of suffering in darkness and obscurity and helplessness, and allowing God to strip us of our false selves and make us into the new men that we are really meant to be."

This idea of losing yourself upon the restful yoke of Christ seems so ambiguous and mysterious, yet at the same time, in its unintelligible transcendence, it allows us to truly be -- a soul with God.

Unchurched -- A Personal Reflection on the Eucharist (Part 1)

In a previous post, who knows how long ago, I referred to a French movie I saw called, "Of Gods and Men." In this movie, we view the internal struggle between a band of monks who live in a dangerous Algerian city. Radical Muslims begin to infiltrate the town and kill anyone who come in the way of their objectives. These monks, who have dedicated their entire lives to the service of the Algerian people, must decide if they should flee the scene to save themselves, or stay and risk their lives for the people's sake. About half of the monks shrink at the thought of purposefully condemning themselves to martyrdom by remaining while the others feel they would be condemning the Algerians by leaving them to the wolves. Eventually, through prayer and deliberation, all of the monks chose to remain in their monastery and serve the Algerians. But in doing so, they fully realize their mortal lives will soon cease to exist.

Towards the movie's end, the audience finds the monks sitting around a dinner table together. Around this table, they break bread and drink wine; they laugh and they cry. No words are spoken. They aren't needed. They know; they know the end is near. Yet, they rejoice, bound and filled by the body and blood. As their Clocks begins to wind down, the joy of spiritual and interpersonal Communion out weighs and over powers their natural propensity to fear....

January showed up a little over a month ago. Whenever January comes to town, she forces people to think on the past and project toward the future. Usually I do whatever it takes to deliberately escape from her mighty hand, but this year, maybe because of my old age and failing limbs, she fetched me as I broke for it. So, I dwelled upon the previous calendar year, and really, the previous years.

Throughout our life, we are always trying to piece together the brokenness, whatever we deem it to be. Once the brokenness becomes a whole, we believe that our greater and overarching brokenness, the brokenness seeded within us, will no longer be present. As January acknowledges this relationship between our external and internal brokenness, does its external fusion really lead to an internal satisfaction?

I came to recognize that ever since college began, I have had no church home. I know and love many people within the church, but my frustration and laziness paralyzed me from giving my heart to any particular physical church. I was repulsed by the thought that I had been in "pastoral" roles over students, yet I deprived myself of Christ's nourishment through his Church. I also understand that faith and growth occurs outside the physical institution but to intentionally forsake it reeks of pride. Well, as soon as January came, her suffocating grip gently urged me toward a decision and allowed me no more freedom to banter with her rationale.

As I prayed and sifted through the endless possibilities, I was introduced to a small Anglican church in Farmers Branch. Now, I bring this whole topic up not because of the church itself (I say that, but the people and the place has been an incredibly gracious gift of God's), but instead because of a solitary act they participate in each week: the Eucharist.

Ever since I went to UD and I went to my first mass, I have been enamored with the Eucharist. I was shocked to find that the centrality of the Mass was the body and blood and not the sermon/homily. My protestant and evangelical background centered their "mass" around pastor and his sermon. The Lord's Supper, as many evangelicals refer to it, was a symbol, a representation of Christ's redemptive sacrifice for mankind. Many churches only take of the Lord's Supper once a month.

I remember talking to one of my friends back home after my first experience at a mass while studying in Rome. I remember trying to put into words the beauty of a service completely dedicated to Jesus' precious, yet hideous sacrifice. I remember being outside, along the outer wall of our classroom, pacing back and forth and forth and back -- my heart racing from its power -- and I wasn't even allowed to take it!

As I participated in this small Anglican service that meets in a somewhat aesthetically strange warehouse space surrounded by furniture stores, I took of the Eucharist with a broken, searching, empty heart. They gave; they blessed; I took; I ate; I drank; I prayed.

Almost instantaneously, God granted me a sense of unity with His Spirit and his people. Comfort, peace, and thanksgiving overwhelmed my dry soul. The music failed to soak it; the prayers contained less moisture than a morning dew; the sermon was only a mirage in the middle of the desert. But the Eucharist brought forth the rain water from the firmament, enriching the desperate, broken earth.

Now, I'm not to the point where I subscribe to the Catholic Church's doctrine on the Eucharist, but I can honestly say that I don't subscribe to the Evangelical perspective either. Many of the Church's confusing doctrine comes down to this simple and beautiful conclusion: divine mystery. This same mystery lead the monks' in Algeria to find complete peace in their martyrdom. While my experience pales in comparison to the monks from the movie, this experience of mine is all that I can glean from.

The beauty and grace that consumed me can only be described as a mysterious gift that rights my wayward heart toward the shore of the one who's body broke and who's blood shed for me. Every time I take of the bread and wine, I gaze upon the wind-filled sail and thank God for blowing me in his right direction.