“But I come here today to look across this world of threats to a world of peace. In that search we cannot expect any final triumph—for new problems will always arise. We cannot expect that all nations will adopt like systems—for conformity is the jailer of freedom and the enemy of growth. Nor can we expect to reach our goal by contrivance, by fiat or even by the wishes of all. But however close we sometimes seem to that dark and final abyss, let no man of peace and freedom despair. For he does not stand alone. If we all can persevere, if we can in every land and office look beyond our own shores and ambitions, then surely the age will dawn in which the strong are just and the weak secure and the peace preserved." (John F. Kennedy, Address in New York City Before the General Assembly of the United Nations, September 25, 1961.)

Today is an anniversary of sorts. March 16, 2009, was the day that I discovered salvation and started digging out of my big depression.

One of the reasons I’ve not been writing here over the past four years is that I’ve been processing. These last four years have represented a dramatic climax in my life, a climax that began with that discovery nine years ago. I’ve completely changed the way I look at religion and relationships. I’ve dropped my faith. My kids’ mom and I have parted ways. And I’ve finally been dealing with many of the family-of-origin issues that had been pressing on my mind. This is all good news. But all of it also dominates the thoughts and emotions, as I forge a new path through life’s jungle, leaving little time for blogging.

But another reason I’ve been silent is that I’ve been afraid to be genuine.

It’s time for that to end.

I think my theme for this week is: life is getting better.

If you’re a Gilmore Girls fan, you might remember the episode after Rory and Dean had their affair, the one in which Dean’s wife Lindsay discovers Rory’s “heinous letter in Dean’s jacket.” Oy f***in’ vey! See, this is what happens when children grow up only on the outside.

And Rory and Lorelai, walking through the town common, almost run into Lindsay and her mother (whose name apparently is Theresa). At which point Theresa begins tearing into Rory, ignoring Lorelai’s urges to calm down, escalating her tone to the point of “You little monster!”

A couple weeks I posted a long, theological piece called “Running for God," which I had expected would inspire controversy and boredom (though not necessarily in that order). Instead, I got some encouraging comments on it.

I had originally written the piece as my final essay for a Foundation theology course at MJTI that I had taken. But in the original essay, after I disagreed with Rick Warren, pushed for a physical salvation in the here-and-now (not just a spiritual one in the forever-after), stated that what we do in this life matters, and quoted Rabbi Jonathan Sacks on human distress and poverty, I went on to discuss faith and works in the context of postmissionary Messianic Judaism.

I now present that discussion.

I was only a boy when Chariots of Fire first hit the silver screen. I remember watching it with my parents— This is long before Internet streaming or NetFlix or DVDs, and video-tape machines were even still pretty expensive, and films were not released for home viewing as they usually are today. So imagine how impressed I was when I recently streamed it via Netflix and remembered so many of the significant scenes and lines.

This classic film tells the story of two Olympic runners, one a Jew, Harold Abrahams, the other a Christian, Eric Liddell. In the story, Liddell is the one who puts God first. A missionary to China, he refuses to run on Sunday, the Christian Sabbath, because the Sabbath is sanctified. And that did happen in real life, though not quite as dramatically as portrayed in the movie. He also finds importance in his running, even though he doesn’t see it as his ultimate calling: “I believe God made me for a purpose, but he also made me fast. And when I run I feel His pleasure.” This is one of the most memorable statements that the writers put into Eric Liddell’s mouth, and for good reason, as it turns the tables on what Christians usually think of as the work of God. We understand that preaching in China is God’s work, but how can God use an activity so mortal as running?

As a teen, I wrestled with this issue, but I didn’t get it. I loved developing software, but I didn’t see how God could use me in that occupation. Maybe if I wrote a computer program that helped introduce people to the idea of salvation… because I believed the most important things in life were about spiritual salvation, and the way to bring God’s purpose into your life was to orient it in that direction.

Harold Abrahams, meanwhile, drives himself to win, by any means possible within the rules. He values his Jewish identity, but we never see him wear a kippah. We never see him in shul. In fact, he uses an awful lot of words of dialogue just trying to fit in as an Englishman, because loathsome attitudes against Jews is an emotional burden against which he wrestles. While he never denies his Jewish heritage, he is the kind of Jew we today would call “secular.” Ultimately, Abrahams falls in love with a Christian girl. And that, too, did happen in real life, though not exactly as portrayed in the movie. In real life, he converted to Catholicism just as the Nazis were coming into power, and then he met Sybil Evers, who would become his wife.

So we have two stereotypes here. One is of the Christian who pursues God’s spiritual eternity, but sees God’s hand even in the mortal activities of life. The other is of the Jew who pursues success in this life, though with honesty and a steel-hard work ethic. The strength of these stereotypes are no doubt one of the reasons Chariots of Fire is so famous a film. But these stereotypes radically oversimplify the truth of the differences between Jews and Christians. It’s a truth I believe both sides can benefit from, but I want to look at it from the Christian perspective.

I’ve been going through a baptism of chaos. Been working on a summer software-development project–summer turning into autumn–a project with too many harrowing twists and a too-soon, hard deadline.

I’ve been putting into this project as many hours as I can fit, plus some that I can’t. Because I need to earn enough money to buy a new car (or at least a new-for-me car). Because my old Saturn no longer drives, and will never drive again. (That’s a long and amusing story, which I absolutely have to tell in another post. I have pictures, too.)

I have a daughter to drive to school in the morning and pick up in the afternoon. That’s the only family responsibility I have consistently respected. That doesn’t stop people from asking favors. Everybody wants a piece of me.

Life has been so hectic that I haven’t had time to breathe.

Holly Lisle in her writing tips newsletter today wrote about plagiarism and being a “real writer.”

I put “real writer” in quotes not for sarcastic effect. I put those words in quotes because those are the words Holly herself used, and I agree with them completely. She talks about some would-be aspiring authors, as it were, looking for an easy way to rip off 100,000 words of others’ work, run it through an automated computer program, and come out with a supposedly original story. These are not “real writers.”

Then Holly said, “People who live their lives always looking for ways to get their hands on things they have not earned never do anything worthwhile. Never create anything worthwhile.”

Christine Macdonald yesterday posted on her blog a reminiscent piece about what Sex and the City gave her.

Sex and the City not only gave me the gift of entertainment (wrapped in a bow of laughter and tears), it helped me see I was worth more and gave back a piece of myself I had sacrificed in my pursuit for the perfect man. Through watching the relationships on the show, it opened my mind and helped me choose curtain number three – where I eventually found a great man who is not the male model type guy I used to seek out, but he’s kind, honest and loving. He treats me better than any man I’ve ever dated. He’s Harry to my Charlotte.

That got me to thinking about the profound ways in which stories affect us.

I’ve been writing fiction—or at least trying to—for about a decade now (plus or minus a couple years, depending on how you count it). After that span of time, most of what I now read, it touches me so profoundly that I have to put a fist through a wall just so I don’t lose my mind out of sheer boredom.

In other words, I don’t fall in love with much of anything anymore.

For example, I just started Ship of Magic by acclaimed fantasy author Robin Hobb. I picked up the book, because Robin Hobb once gushed over Holly Lisle’s Talyn, which I adored. I figured, if Robin knows good stuff when she reads it, maybe she’s written some good stuff, too. Besides, the story sounded like it might engage me. So I cracked open Ship of Magic. And somewhere on page one, I actually put myself into “line-editing” mode, reading for grammar and punctuation instead of for content— because for the fun of it, that’s why!

Lazette Gifford, author of Return to Redlin and other ebooks and novels, wrote a couple days ago about the most important writing rule:

"You must be willing to learn."

She’s not talking about learning how to write. She’s talking about learning about life, about the world. Or what I call the spiritual side of writing. Writing is a growing experience. If you want your writing experience to fulfill, you must be willing to expand your horizons through it. Regardless of which horizons you expand or which passions you pursue, writing fulfills because it allows you to express yourself in the world around you.

“Why do you write?” Classic question. That’s the reason, the last clause in the paragraph above. “Because it allows you to express yourself in the world around you.” This is what writers mean, I think, when they say “I write because I have to,” or “I write because I have a story to tell.” As reasons to write, these are cop-outs.

Sharks are infamous for the feeding frenzy. They smell blood, and they lose control. All their instincts go on high alert. They turn into a finely tuned hunting machine, with one goal, to eat the kill.

Other animals, too, have their frenzies. The predator hunts, and the prey runs. Instinct tells them to panic, and that’s exactly what they do. The adrenaline pumps. The muscles engage. All of the creature’s strength and brain power directs itself toward one goal, whether to kill or to avoid being killed.

And humans are no different.