Why do you want to persecute yourself with the question of where all this is coming from and where it is going? Since you know, after all, that you are in the midst of transitions and you wished for nothing so much as to change. -Rilke
Now I'm not going to call this is a rant, per se... More of a need to express the growing emotions that have been surging in my spirit over the last few days. Call it cathartic, I guess. I completely understand if you don't have the will or the patience to work your way through this slog of a post; to be honest, I barely have the will or the patience to write it. But write it I feel I must do... compulsory to some extent. It's all that is allowed for me to actually physically do, as recently my car's transmission gave up the ghost in front of the Total Wine as I was on my way to the Booksamillion on Harbison Blvd, keeping me from driving back to Charlotte (not that CLT is doing me any good at this point...). So I suppose this is preferable to walking a hundred miles, although my feet won't be able to do any moving and will continue to move as if I have somewhere to go.
So here's a snarky "All hope abandon blah blah blah." Fair warning. This is going to be in the typical nature of blogs, that is to say completely self-oriented and/or self-obsessed. It's the only way.
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Marley was dead to begin with. In this particular drama, playing the part of Marley is my enthusiasm for a recent move to Charlotte, NC. This ordeal, for all those somewhat distanced from the situation (which, if you're reading this blog, hi. We should hang out.), was something of an impulse thing. I had been living in Greenville, SC long enough to really feel the smallness of the town and my own life's experiences, namely two years. The growth of the local community belied the abandonment of my own. I hadn't attended a church faithfully since... well, since recent memory. I had gotten way, way out of the habit during my undergrad years, because the traveling drama team visited a new church every week. And I suppose my standards are perhaps a bit on the impossible side, but there were no churches in the upstate South Carolina area that I felt even marginally interested in attending. That aside, my desire to be in and amongst the Church was growing at a rate proportional to my waist size. That is to say, growing quickly and unceasingly. When an opportunity appeared, I ran with it. Not in an aerobic sense, although the thrift that was thrust upon me has seen to a reducing of the aforementioned waist. And now, in the aftermath of that haste, I find myself torn.
Here's the deal. Elevation Church (the impetus for my spring from SC) is generally known to be among the most creative churches in the world. They consistently produce some of the most interesting visual content that exists in the church-at-large, and possibly anywhere outside of professional movie studios. And yet, despite their visual excellence, they tend to lack content that might provide a suitable empathetic or intellectual response that might fully complement the bravado shown by their illustrious leader, Pastor Stephen Furtick. I'm just calling it how I sees it. And that's how I sees it. Polished, yes. Pretty, yes. Innovative, sometimes. Revolutionary... almost. Not quite.
Here's where this post might take a turn for the bloggy (as if it hasn't been there for at least three hundred words). In the interest of full disclosure, I already know how unqualified I am to be saying what I'm saying. There is no reason that anyone should listen to a word that I have to say in regards to anything. And still I write. This intrigues me.
Here lies the crux of my concern. This is what I would like to explore in this wordy tub o' thought: is it appropriate or prideful to speak forcefully and honestly about matters that you only have thought-equity invested in? To rephrase: in this case, is it my RESPONSIBILITY (emphasis mine)to contribute my perspective to a church's creative leaders or simply a prideful attempt at finding my own significance, even if an unintended side-effect? ... and, depending on the answer, what's the implication on a Christian's responsibility to contribute to the body of Christ if they have no vested authority in their respective fields?
I'll even take another step back and go completely universal for a sec. What is the appropriateness for a layperson, driven though he may be, to walk into a respected place of worship and ask if he can play, too? A gray area in practicality, although on paper it sounds relatively easy. There are many factors that prevent one from walking on water: buoyancy, surface tension, salinity, etc. Not to mention that only one non-deity was documented doing it, to relatively ill-effect. And certainly it is not advisable to step into a neighbor's yard to borrow their pool for a bit while they are in the midst of a brutal water polo match. Even if you say excuse me as you take the first step.
So I move to Charlotte with the hopes of contributing my two cents. So here's derr strooggle: Which is the less-prideful decision? 1. To focus on my own relationship with Christ and with others that I come into contact with and wait patiently for opportunities to arise organically from situations (in other words, be passive), or 2. Be proactive and attempt to insert myself strategically into the workings of a powerful Christian zeitgeist-factory? Honestly, not an easy one. On one hand, all things will be on the timetable of God and his working, but then again, it's more advisable to throw your seed onto fertile soil (although this last metaphor seems a little risque, it's the best one I could think of).
I know that I'm not going to "arrive" if ever I am allowed to participate with the creative team. I just desire the opportunity to be able to even start the process of learning from hands-on experience and grow slowly into an effective artist. And so far, I've either pulled the rug out from under myself as I am engaging with the church to keep from doing it for the wrong reasons, or gotten bitter that I've ended up homeless (oh yeah, I'm def not living in my own space, but on the continuing good will of a benefactor and couch).
Perhaps I can't answer this question just yet. It's still maturing, as am I.
And I know that this issue is not as dichotomous as I'm implying. There's of course the fear of failure that is ever-present, and also a personal reaction against it. There's the resentment that I have to force myself upon someone in order to proceed with my life. There's a ridiculous quality in pursuing an artistic life in general, though I know that such a life in the church would be the only thing that would satisfy my intellectual/emotional needs. There's the time-consuming exhaustion of working a terrible job. There's no personal space for reflection.
There's the irrepressible ache for artistic outflow that remains dammed up inside and swirling as if there's a brutal water polo match raging.
It's as if my transmission has seized up in front of the Total Wine on Harbison Blvd, that I have no way of fixing it myself, grinding my forward momentum to a halt.
Not even one step.
Excuse me.
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