Dissonant Chords Strike Deep

Warning: This post is entirely, and overtly, over dramatic. True to events but hindsight sees it's un-foundedness. Things always look more frightening in the thick of the woods.



Two days after my last post, I panicked.

My heart seized and tensed in preparation for the only response I could muster; flight.

I called my boss immediately that morning, in what felt like a breakdown, and begged him to fire me; to release me from the only contract that bound me to this city.

He would not.

But this place was suddenly too much to bear.

Whereas it is very true that on the the road one faces a brand new set of demons; those dark quiet leviathans of the mind that hide away in everyday noise; it is also true that community offers it's own pervasive trials.

Namely...... integrity, or lack thereof.

Integrity is not a thing forced on the traveling man. When everyday is a new city, a blank slate that I introduce myself to only for the night; there is no one who knows my yesterdays.

In all honesty, I could remake myself every day of the week. Put on a new person, try out a new name, make up a list of grand accomplishment, or hint at a sordid past. And whatever town it happened to be, would not know me, but truly believe in the existence of that other man, the man of my invention.

I don't employ such deliberate deceit as to speak in different accents or say 'hi I'm Rufus' but there is a more subtle deceit that happens when there are no checks and balances, the lie that I'm bigger than my own skin.

Community, then, is the checkpoint. The station at which all of these transparent self-portraits are held against the light, one on top of the other, to reveal what registers, and what doesn't. Am I who I say I am, or do I just spin a lofty tale.

I have been as transparent as I know how in my current post at Emmaus. I had told them my life, my struggles, my shortcomings. They know I am imperfect. But still there was a great panic fearing something more; fearing, maybe, that they would believe it.

And I was stuck under the weight of what felt like the immanent rendering of my true colors.

I was immobile, paralyzed, buried up to my neck in Civil War souvenirs with a face covered in honey waiting for the ants to swarm and pick little pieces of these smiles and poses to reveal what the camera can't see, the one behind the curtain. All my personal propaganda, defenestrated.

Some lines from my journal written moments after my plea for freedom:

"The perfection of ideal shows the convection of the real
boiled down to wicked paste, good for nothing but the
taste, for greed, and glory,
and my own d##m story"

So I took on a fast, not out of reverence, but defiance. I was in the mind to starve myself until God showed his face. I was seething at a Savior who hadn't 'saved' me enough. Almost two full days and I was bitter and sullen, sulking around in corners.

That is, until the picnic.

An entire afternoon surrounded by all of my new friends, set in the park on the most beautiful of days. All afternoon, I did not touch the luscious foods or partake in the games of frisbee and childlike tag, I laid quiet and shaded just outside the picture. But as the sun began to set, my frustrations seemed to dissolve. And I could no longer remember what had gotten me so angry in the first place.

There was so much enjoyment to be had that afternoon; and seeing my friends running about smiling, shouting 'Chris, come play!' there was peace.

God did show up.

God had been there all along.

After all every good and perfect gift comes from Him, and I seem to be in the middle of an endless Christmas.

So were those feelings and fears founded? Of course not. No one had pulled me aside and revealed that I was more wicked than I pretend to be. Though they felt no less real.

There is always a sharpening and revealing when one is in community and it is often hard, but it is nothing to fear or run from. It is only the shaping of who we're meant to be.

But is this not just an example, albeit an extreme one, of that strange relational paranoia that we all feel from time to time; those senses that paint ourselves darkly in light of our friends, enemies, and especially those we admire?

The heart is deceitful above all things.



I'll be leaving Gettysburg soon; Monday morning to be exact. But not in fear with a desire to escape, I leave with peace, and a hope of returning.



Thanks to all of you who are with me in this. I love you!



Christopher Andrew