chapter 3 - Where are you going with this, God?
If you have red hair, you will certainly have noticed one thing in particular: everyone comments on it. Sometimes it is the ‘carrot top’ comment, sometimes it is the ‘firey red-head’ comment, but most often it is just pure envy. Women in particular seem to envy red-haired people. Particularly in the case of my former landlord’s slightly creepy over-affectionate british wife, who would stroke my hair and tell me I was such a handsome boy, all while my roommate watched from the basement suite window. Scary. I did not look forward to handing in the rent check, and it was not because I couldn’t afford rent, either.
Women also seem to envy in particular men who have red, curly hair. I confess at this time that I was blessed with this full head of strawberry blonde hair, nice open curls, and some tempting ringlets in the back. The curls never fell in my eyes since one distinct male trait in my family is a fairly high treeline, if you get my meaning. It was thus that I was able to grow my auburn locks out for all the world to admire. Nine years or so of my life were spent parading around with bouncing ringlets, or a puffy pony-tail trailing after me. And then when I was about twenty-five I started to think: What kind of a sick, twisted God do I serve?
You see, the other trait that has fixed itself firmly to my family’s genetic code is the phrase that strikes fear into the hearts of men world wide: Male Pattern Baldness. The only exception to the rule of fear would be Tibetan Monks, who would see baldness as 15 more minutes of sleep in the morning.
When I was twenty-five, I started to notice that my hair didn’t grow as long on top anymore, and some of the locks didn’t even reach my pony-tail. I was in denial for a long time. I refused to believe that it would happen to me. How could God create such a nice head of hair and then take it away so early in my young life? I was dumbfounded. This can’t be happening, I said. It did anyways.
So I got my hair cut. I went home for Christmas one year, and told my mom to cut it off. All of it. She shuddered (this is where my mom and most moms differ, she actually tried to talk me out of cutting my chest-length hair. I think because she never had a daughter she was trying to live her hair-brushing fantasies out in me. Yes, I am permanently scarred, mom. Thanks). Maybe we’ll start by cutting a few inches off, then see how you like it, she said. Cut it all off, I said. Eventually she relented and when I returned to the college people flocked to my office to see me. They had never seen me with short hair. It was strange.
You see there comes a time when everyone faces the things they cannot change about themselves. I am still in process about this one. I don’t want to be bald...not yet. When I am fifty, sure, it will look dignified. But now I am still in my thirties, I don’t want people to see the shiny top of my head. But it doesn’t matter what I want. The clearcuts persist. I am already praying for my son that his fine red hair, which is very similar to mine, and my father’s, will last longer than mine. For now I will remain the butt of the balding jokes. sigh.
I shake my fist at God. It seems petty, I know. I am still trying to figure how to let God out of the responsibility for the little things that govern my life, without letting him out off the hook for the big ones. It is the eternal mystery of God: He could stop my hair from falling out, but he doesn’t. He could stop the genocide in Africa, but he doesn’t. It is the same problem. It is a problem of control, as in who has it?
I will always believe in God. I know that. When I look at the way myself and my world were created, I can’t imagine the incomprehensibly large odds that this was all some galactic accident. I heard it once described in this way: Paint a quarter red. Then cover the state of Texas a foot deep with quarters. Then wander around and at random plunge your hand into the sea of quarters and pull one out. It is more likely for you to grab that one red quarter in the first try, than for the universe to exist with all it’s life and diversity. For me, that is a way bigger leap of faith than believing that there was a design to it. Even the fact that we as humans are driven to create, to paint, to make something new tells me that we are born of the fabric of creation. There is too much complexity to ignore the blood of God crying from the rocks, but it begs the question: Where are you going with this, God?
In university, I had an ex-christian philosopy professor who based his new-found atheism on this one arguement: If God is all-knowing, all-powerful, and all-good, why didn’t he create humans with free choice, but who only choose the right thing? The answer seemed obvious to me, that without the choice, it is not a choice. But he would not be swayed. Sean, my Mormon friend, and I argued until we were blue in the face, to the disapproving sneers of the 'enlightened' students around us, but to no avail. When someone even passively negates an option for you, it is no longer a choice but a complusion. And it is not that sort of universe that God wanted, I suppose. The result: this beautiful mess.
My reality is that I will never know what God has in mind for this earth. I have to live with this big question mark, parked in my gut just to the right of my large intestine. I sometimes bear the weight of it’s curve, feel the pressure of it’s dot. I don’t know where he’s going. What I am discovering is this: I trust him. Originally it was because I thought that my prayers could sway God’s hand, and it's possible that they do, but I won’t know when or why. I generally pray for the wrong things is my problem. Is the selfish prayer a prayer at all? In high school I kept vigil over my doubts, not letting them creep up too loudly, trusting that God would guide me, and tell me where I was going. Over time, as my body, my heart, and my faith age and mature, and even get world-weary, I find that my trust comes from a different place: necessity. I have put myself in a position where I have no choice but to do the right thing and trust God. I believe in God, and I cannot do so without believeing that he is in control of this merry-go-round. And sometimes I want off, but I trust that it is an all-knowing, all-powerful, all-loving God that has created for me a way out of my predicament. He dun found me a loophole.
And so I continue to trust. It is a blind, ignorant trust. Like the trust my son has in me when I swoop him up in the air. Sometimes he is startled and sometimes he laughs and laughs. He doesn’t know the risks, and neither do I know God’s risks. I bet he is doing the best he can, juggling love and justice, both of which complicate our lives immensely, and sobbing and laughing along with us. I bet God cares about my hair, or lack thereof, and that he is sad with me when I stare at the thinning fuzz up north, but perhaps Male Pattern Baldness has a (well disguised) blessing in it’s hands for humanity. I cannot imagine what it would be, but that’s not my job. My job is to trust.
And so I try. Humans don’t take to trust very well, but at least I no longer wonder what kind of sick, twisted God I serve. Instead I wonder when I will feel the brush of his hand or the gentle sound of his breezy voice. It’s been a while, but I trust it will happen again. And I wonder: Do you think God has red hair?
Women also seem to envy in particular men who have red, curly hair. I confess at this time that I was blessed with this full head of strawberry blonde hair, nice open curls, and some tempting ringlets in the back. The curls never fell in my eyes since one distinct male trait in my family is a fairly high treeline, if you get my meaning. It was thus that I was able to grow my auburn locks out for all the world to admire. Nine years or so of my life were spent parading around with bouncing ringlets, or a puffy pony-tail trailing after me. And then when I was about twenty-five I started to think: What kind of a sick, twisted God do I serve?
You see, the other trait that has fixed itself firmly to my family’s genetic code is the phrase that strikes fear into the hearts of men world wide: Male Pattern Baldness. The only exception to the rule of fear would be Tibetan Monks, who would see baldness as 15 more minutes of sleep in the morning.
When I was twenty-five, I started to notice that my hair didn’t grow as long on top anymore, and some of the locks didn’t even reach my pony-tail. I was in denial for a long time. I refused to believe that it would happen to me. How could God create such a nice head of hair and then take it away so early in my young life? I was dumbfounded. This can’t be happening, I said. It did anyways.
So I got my hair cut. I went home for Christmas one year, and told my mom to cut it off. All of it. She shuddered (this is where my mom and most moms differ, she actually tried to talk me out of cutting my chest-length hair. I think because she never had a daughter she was trying to live her hair-brushing fantasies out in me. Yes, I am permanently scarred, mom. Thanks). Maybe we’ll start by cutting a few inches off, then see how you like it, she said. Cut it all off, I said. Eventually she relented and when I returned to the college people flocked to my office to see me. They had never seen me with short hair. It was strange.
You see there comes a time when everyone faces the things they cannot change about themselves. I am still in process about this one. I don’t want to be bald...not yet. When I am fifty, sure, it will look dignified. But now I am still in my thirties, I don’t want people to see the shiny top of my head. But it doesn’t matter what I want. The clearcuts persist. I am already praying for my son that his fine red hair, which is very similar to mine, and my father’s, will last longer than mine. For now I will remain the butt of the balding jokes. sigh.
I shake my fist at God. It seems petty, I know. I am still trying to figure how to let God out of the responsibility for the little things that govern my life, without letting him out off the hook for the big ones. It is the eternal mystery of God: He could stop my hair from falling out, but he doesn’t. He could stop the genocide in Africa, but he doesn’t. It is the same problem. It is a problem of control, as in who has it?
I will always believe in God. I know that. When I look at the way myself and my world were created, I can’t imagine the incomprehensibly large odds that this was all some galactic accident. I heard it once described in this way: Paint a quarter red. Then cover the state of Texas a foot deep with quarters. Then wander around and at random plunge your hand into the sea of quarters and pull one out. It is more likely for you to grab that one red quarter in the first try, than for the universe to exist with all it’s life and diversity. For me, that is a way bigger leap of faith than believing that there was a design to it. Even the fact that we as humans are driven to create, to paint, to make something new tells me that we are born of the fabric of creation. There is too much complexity to ignore the blood of God crying from the rocks, but it begs the question: Where are you going with this, God?
In university, I had an ex-christian philosopy professor who based his new-found atheism on this one arguement: If God is all-knowing, all-powerful, and all-good, why didn’t he create humans with free choice, but who only choose the right thing? The answer seemed obvious to me, that without the choice, it is not a choice. But he would not be swayed. Sean, my Mormon friend, and I argued until we were blue in the face, to the disapproving sneers of the 'enlightened' students around us, but to no avail. When someone even passively negates an option for you, it is no longer a choice but a complusion. And it is not that sort of universe that God wanted, I suppose. The result: this beautiful mess.
My reality is that I will never know what God has in mind for this earth. I have to live with this big question mark, parked in my gut just to the right of my large intestine. I sometimes bear the weight of it’s curve, feel the pressure of it’s dot. I don’t know where he’s going. What I am discovering is this: I trust him. Originally it was because I thought that my prayers could sway God’s hand, and it's possible that they do, but I won’t know when or why. I generally pray for the wrong things is my problem. Is the selfish prayer a prayer at all? In high school I kept vigil over my doubts, not letting them creep up too loudly, trusting that God would guide me, and tell me where I was going. Over time, as my body, my heart, and my faith age and mature, and even get world-weary, I find that my trust comes from a different place: necessity. I have put myself in a position where I have no choice but to do the right thing and trust God. I believe in God, and I cannot do so without believeing that he is in control of this merry-go-round. And sometimes I want off, but I trust that it is an all-knowing, all-powerful, all-loving God that has created for me a way out of my predicament. He dun found me a loophole.
And so I continue to trust. It is a blind, ignorant trust. Like the trust my son has in me when I swoop him up in the air. Sometimes he is startled and sometimes he laughs and laughs. He doesn’t know the risks, and neither do I know God’s risks. I bet he is doing the best he can, juggling love and justice, both of which complicate our lives immensely, and sobbing and laughing along with us. I bet God cares about my hair, or lack thereof, and that he is sad with me when I stare at the thinning fuzz up north, but perhaps Male Pattern Baldness has a (well disguised) blessing in it’s hands for humanity. I cannot imagine what it would be, but that’s not my job. My job is to trust.
And so I try. Humans don’t take to trust very well, but at least I no longer wonder what kind of sick, twisted God I serve. Instead I wonder when I will feel the brush of his hand or the gentle sound of his breezy voice. It’s been a while, but I trust it will happen again. And I wonder: Do you think God has red hair?
posted by creativisualist at 4:05 PM
3 Comments:
I just found this blog today, Mike. I haven't read this last entry yet as I was catching up, but... gosh, I wish we could have talked about some of this on our vacation. I told Christian recently that I feel like I am going through my mid-life crisis--a bit too early. I can't remember if you said you read it but, The Story We Find Oursleves In by Brian McClaren was pivotal to me this past spring to help me re-evaluating what I believe. Not that I have it all figured out now. But a lot of what you have written is along similar lines in my journal (pen and paper).
Hey Scoterboy,
I enjoyed the progression of thoughts, taking us through your locks to meander in the end at the crux of our outworking or not-working faith - trust. It is quite a sharp point that pokes at us (or at least me) how does my trust enable or disengage my faith . . . I am not sure and yet sure that it does.
I remember when I was younger, 14ish, and I played hockey, my dad would stand behing the plexiglass and watch, I always wanted to make him proud. During the game I would take a quick look to him to note his approval or disapproval, and when I was not playing well, not trying, he would take his hand and make a circular motion like he was spinning a wheel with his hand. In his mind I am sure he was saying -"get going, get your ass moving, start hitting, skate harder, you know you can work harder than that" and it all came out in the simple motion he made with his hand. If I started "trying" harder, after the game he would simple say, "good game." I felt that I had made him proud. But if I didn't try harder, or simply continued to put in some ice time, he would not say a thing, I understood the dissappointent that he was feeling cause he know I could do better. He never made me feel guilty over it, he simply knew that there was more there in my ability than what I was giving, there was more opportunity, more potential outworking, he just knew I was better than that.
I examine my faith sometimes, and let God know, point blank, I don't get it sometimes - Faith, Him, Life, Tragedy, "premature male balding"(smile) . . . - And I am not sure if I am necessarily suppose to. But what I have learned out of this is a voice inside saying, "Are you trying, are you trying for me and towards me, are you in the act of trying to trust?" And as this thought goes through my head, and when I can I answer, "Yes Dad", I see a smile on his face. I am not sure how much I trust all the time, but I am in the process of trying more . . .
Keep that semi-red-haired-head stimulated, you got some good thoughts.
KevinE
hey thanks guys for your comments. It is hard to balance the pleasing God out of love versus out of guilt...it is the guilt that I am learning to shed. It has been, and is, a hard journey that has led me to places in my faith that I haven't expected; including a 'Whatever, God' kind of place. It seems that God is still using that time to teach me stuff, however...and that is the true brilliance of God, and the reason my trust in him continues. He won't let me be, not in a hounding kind of way, but in a sublime, undercurrent way. The way that love feels.
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