A Scholar's Parrot May Talk Greek

Lately, I’ve been feeling pretty fake. I recently joined a Bible study, in hopes of becoming real again, but I find that this study seems only to be a course in what I’ve learned all my life, and what—right now, anyway—isn’t moving me. I realize again and again that this life in the church has taught me much about the language of religion, and I can repeat what I’ve heard without it really meaning a thing to me.

And I’m miserable.

So, I return to something simpler—something less analytical than the differences between justification, atonement, and redemption; something that will mean something to me and the world. And here I find again what never ceases to confound me.

“It is the kindness of God that leads us to repentance.” But where is this kindness found? How can my heart search earnestly in a world of unfairness and a place where serving God only hurts more and more everyday? Somehow, I know it’s not supposed to be like this.

I read a chapter in Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller, which quickly became my favorite book a little over a year ago. It’s called “Problems: What I Learned On Television.” It speaks to the problems of the world…the ones we see on the news that help us feel safe and secure in the Good Ole USA. It’s depressing, though, because these problems are a reflection of who we really are…and who we would find ourselves to be if we weren’t so fortunate to live under the authority of a government that cares.

People talk about needing brokenness, and this confounds me, too. How can anyone say they need to be broken before God when all we are is broken? All we have is dysfunction. All we do is useless. I pray for less and less brokenness, in my own heart and the world. Still, I wonder what I do to obtain it. I am constantly fighting God. I ask for a heart that loves him above all else—namely, myself. But in this request is a testing to see how powerful God really is. After all, I’m doing nothing to encourage this heart. I am only fighting it. Still, I feel the spirit of hope return. And it is comforting to know that the kindness of God surpasses the rebellion inside of me.

So, with this hope I return to the true matter of the problems of this world. I return to acknowledging that my heart is black, and I am among the people—the everyone—that Paul refers to in Romans when he reminds us that there is no one who is righteous or seeks after God. And I return to letting God put this broken pot back together.