Home.
Such a weird concept for me now that I've been back in Albuquerque for almost a month. Being on the road really makes you take a good hard look at what you've found comfort in. I used to find home in angry punk rock anthems, soulful blues, and angsty poetry writing.
“Wait a minute something's wrong here
The key won't unlock this door
I got a bad bad feeling
My baby don't live here no more.”
–Red House (in this case, sung by Jimi Hendrix)
Being on “the field”, living out of a backpack, and forming a community from shared joys and depraved traumas was something I never thought I'd ever like. Christian community always felt extremely fake, forced, and if I were honest, a “happy thought” with no real implementation in my life. There were attempts to do it: college R.A.'s throwing dorm parties, weekly youth group meetings, and the black hole formerly known as “Facebook”. Even before I started fund raising, my “job” was to form a faith community in a place that seemed devoid of it. It never came to fruition, mostly due to my lack of commitment to long suffering and no vision. I was frustrated because I wanted the fruits that holy suffering brings without actually doing it. Then to make matters worse, often times I blamed others/God. I felt like I was going nowhere, man:
“Nowhere Man, don't worry,
Take your time, don't hurry,
Leave it all till somebody else
lends you a hand!
Doesn't have a point of view,
Knows not where he's going to,
Isn't he a bit like you and me?”
–Nowhere Man, The Beatles
Then I started the Race. I enjoyed the open road. My squad was new and a bit misfity (like me). Freedom was choosing to suffer with people who believed similarly to you. We all did not know where we were headed, but we all knew our God well. It was really the first time I had trusted God to do something completely crazy.
I found God changing me through such unexpected venues: dancing at Guatemalan costume parties, teaching Romanian worship sessions, being very thankful for the mush that is ugali, and living with Christian strangers that taught me that family is where you made it. I never found so much joy than being striped of everything but God and each other.
Now that I'm back in America, I find myself clinging to God so hard I sometimes think I smell Him, feeling like an alien in my homeland. This Christmas eve I went to a church service, I was surprised and a bit relieved to hear the Christmas message be described as “preposterous”. It really does seem crazy. God, the one that made everything, the one I experienced this whole year, came to being. It's outrageous. And furthermore, He lived a life in obscurity, never traveled more than 200 miles from home, and died the death of a common criminal. Then, three days later, got up from the grave and proved to everyone He is God.
All I can think is: “No way… how different than I expect.” How I expected God to be more grandiose, more of wrathful justice, more like me… and yet less like me… and yet unlike human that ever lived.
This Christmas, I will remember where I felt/feel God.
I will remember that Home is knowing that no matter how crazy it is, He is God today.
I am living in the mystery of what it means to be a sinner and His son.
This Christmas, I am finding home in God's arms.
I am living in the wonder.
