The Times I Got Mugged, Part 1

I spent fourteen years of my childhood living in Bogotá, Colombia.

Quick side note: That's right, it's Colombia, not Columbia. The places that most often misspell the country's name are, infuriatingly, establishments that sell coffee. Know your product, people! Also, do you think it is socially acceptable to point out that your sign may mislead geographically literate people to assume you got your beans from South Carolina?

Yes, fourteen years in Colombia. And during this time, there were several instances of attempted mugging, only one of which was successful - the first.

I think that this first attempt was the only successful one because it was the only one in which the muggers just took what they wanted without any sort of request accompanied by threats of violence. They just took it. There's a lesson to be learned here for would-be muggers - asking for the cash will get you nowhere. You need to just take it and run. I do not endorse this lifestyle, by the way.

But I get ahead of myself. Later, once-and-if I've shared all of my mugging stories with you, you can let me know if you have a better explanation for why the first one succeeded where the rest failed.

I must have been around sixteen or seventeen. I had recently purchased a ball cap. It was purple. It had some team's logo emblazoned on the front, but I can't remember which team it was, which is interesting to me - why did I buy it? Purple was not my favorite color. The team can't have been one I was a fan of, as none of my favorite teams' colors are purple. And, if I remember correctly, it didn't fit me all that well, either. Perhaps it was very cheap.

I was riding a bike (my brain won't commit to whether it was mine or my sister's) from my house to an unremembered location that had to have been several blocks away, judging from where the mugging took place. Could have been church, or youth group, or my mother's work place. Or maybe I was just out for a ride. Jeez, I feel a little bit bad for you! Here I am trying to tell you this story, and I sound like a rambling old man who can't get half his facts straight.

Right, so I remember riding my bike on a street that was on the north side of a pretty big mall. And there were a couple of hot girls walking towards me on the opposite sidewalk.

I heard the sound of an approaching motorcycle behind me and steered the bike so I was closer to the curb - better safe than dead. As the driver passed within inches of me, his passenger reached out and *yoink* grabbed my hat off my head.

My head was jerked to the side as they drove off. I lost my balance, turned my handlebar too sharply, and flipped over the front of the bike, beautifully scraping both palms on the asphalt. Fueled by rage and probably the unconscious desire to appear manly before the approaching ladies, I quickly got to my feet and began to run after the motorcycle, but it was too fast, and had already rounded the corner at the intersection, my purple hat with it; gone for good.

The two hot girls crossed the street to me, wringing their hands and speaking words of pity to me. I believe the word pobresito (which pretty much means "poor little guy") was used.

For some reason, this added humiliation to my boiling anger.

And that's all I remember about this first and only successful mugging attempt.

"Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light."

Jesus calls all who labor and are heavy laden. What does he mean by that? I suppose it could be a physical exhaustion. It could also be those struggling with emotional burdens because of economic hardship, social hurts, relationship breakdown, or simply depression. He calls all of these people who are just plain tired with life and promises to give them rest - rest for their souls.

As a Christian, I found this to be true. I found the idea of Jesus calling me, taking my heavy burdens, and replacing them with his simple yoke incredibly refreshing and compelling. Here was a simple relationship of trust and obedience, like a child's with her parent; one that often gave me a wonderful sense of peace. Keith Green's song often came to mind when thinking of the yoke of Christ: Just keep doing your best, and pray that it's blessed, and he'll take care of the rest.

Jesus says that his yoke is easy, and his burden is light.

And again, this was something I experienced. Faith in God and his ability to care for me and to lead me where he wanted was relatively easy.

Unfortunately, the more I thought about my faith and its validity, the heavier this yoke became on my shoulders.

The yoke that was supposed to bring peace and rest instead began to weigh heavily on my mind as I considered the ramifications of what it meant to trust in (and actually feel benefit from!) a deity who was not there.

It was the feeling of relief evaporating when one realizes that the sight of life-giving water was merely a mirage. It was the feeling of hope dying when the report of a cancer-free body is discovered to have been accidentally switched with another patient's.
It was a feeling of dark despair.

I began to deal with the terrible cognitive dissonance of believing in a god who loved me with zero real evidence that he's actually there.

Short Thought on Evangelism

How then will they call on him in whom they have not believed? And how are they to believe in him of whom they have never heard? And how are they to hear without someone preaching?

If Christianity's deity is real, why does he depend so heavily on his children to introduce him to everyone else?

Also, when his child attempts to introduce him, why won't he say hello?

"Hogarth, I'd like you to meet my Father."

"Oh! Great! Hi, Mr..... ?"

....

"Um..."

Shucks, why won't he say hello when I say it first? If he's real, why is he so hidden and silent? Why does he constantly remind me of Baal in the story of Mount Carmel, and his followers of Baal's prophets?

“Cry aloud, for he is a god. Either he is musing, or he is relieving himself, or he is on a journey, or perhaps he is asleep and must be awakened.” And they cried aloud ... but there was no voice. No one answered; no one paid attention.

Short Thought on Hell

From what I can gather, a fair amount of those who know me believe that, unless I rejoin their club, I am destined for a literal eternity of torture, brought about by my rebellion and refusal to accept the free gift of salvation. (Whether or not someone can accept salvation a second time after having "given it up" once is up for debate, I imagine.)

Here is one of my problems with this idea.

Reference to God as Father is a common metaphor in Scripture, as is the idea that God is Love. Evangelical Christians want me to accept the idea that God is a loving father, who has the best interests of his creations at heart.

The sentence of eternal torture goes against this metaphor, and only some insane theological twists can make one think the problem is resolved.

If God loves me, why would he torture me? Is it because he is perfect, and therefore cannot abide my sins? If he cannot abide my sins, why not put me in Hell now? Is it because he is patient? Okay - so he's patient now, up until the moment of my death and we go from patiently waiting for 30-100 years to an ETERNITY OF TORTURE. Well that escalated quickly! It's like he's bipolar or something - excessively patient or the other extreme.

Calling this kind of god good goes against the definition of the word good. Are you trying to tell me that the better a person I am, the more I will feel the desire to eternally torture people who aren't? How the hell is this a good plan?

Short Thought on Christmas

It was a good Christmas.

I feel like my personal "War Against Christmas" has evaporated since losing belief in the "Reason for the Season." Before, my strong desire to follow Christ and to be more like him prevented me from feeling complete joy in the gifts I would give and receive while celebrating his birthday. It felt like going to someone's party and ignoring him, giving gifts to the other guests, eating cake, but not doing much for the birthday-boy.

Now I don't worry about what Jesus wants - I don't think he's alive to care about it. I've come to appreciate Christmas as a warm and familiar holiday in the middle of the bitter cold that draws on traditions from many faiths. Now my joy is complete in the giving and receiving of gifts, in the egg-nog with a wee bit of rum, in the singing of carols - both beautiful and silly, in the happiness of family and friends.

If there is any sadness in my heart this Christmas, it is in the memory of years lost in service to a myth and in the knowledge that most of the people I know still labor under the same heavy yoke of the Christian faith.

Mr. Rogers and Tragedy

I don't know if this would comfort me, were I in the position of the loved ones of 27 people in Connecticut tonight. But for what it's worth:

“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, 'Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.' To this day, especially in times of disaster, I remember my mother’s words and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers – so many caring people in this world.”
- Mr. Rogers

Is Mystery Overrated?

This is taken from Steve Shives, without his permission; hopefully he won't mind.

A little over a week ago, as my wife and I were on our way home from Hagerstown, I looked up and saw a group of strange lights in the night sky. There was a period of maybe thirty seconds where I had no idea what they were. They weren't stars, or aircraft, or anything immediately familiar. They just burned bright and hung there in mid-air, as if by magic, or perhaps some technology far advanced of humanity.
As we began to drive past them, I realized what they were: sky lanterns — candles inside inflated paper bags. The heat from the candle's flame heats the air inside the lantern, causing it to rise like a hot air balloon. The lantern flies as long as the candle burns, then falls back to the ground once the flame goes out. No magic, no alien technology. Something humans in China knew how to make hundreds, perhaps thousands of years ago, a simple combination of science and craftsmanship.
My purpose in sharing this with you is to demonstrate (hopefully) the beauty of a true explanation for something, even when that explanation might appear mundane to some when compared to more fantastic theories. Mysteries should intrigue us because we want to know things, not because we cherish our own ignorance. To cling to a supernatural or extraterrestrial explanation of something without evidence undermines the very thing that got us interested in that something to start with: we wanted to know. And wanting to know is pointless unless we're willing to accept the answer we find, whatever it might be.
I find nothing beautiful about reports of UFO sightings or alien abductions or magical and supernatural happenings. There's no reason to believe that any of these things is real. They stand between us and the truth. They're the clouds obscuring the stars. (Metaphorically speaking, you know — clouds are actually very interesting.)
Those sky lanterns, though . . . they were beautiful, especially once I knew what I was looking at.

My favorite parts of this:‎
"...wanting to know is pointless unless we're willing to accept the answer we find, whatever it might be."
and
"...they were beautiful, especially once I knew what I was looking at."

There's something about "mystery" that is beautiful. Do you think there is something about the reveal that lessens the beauty?