Space Enough, and Time

One of the things that I’ve had to keep in mind while reading Donald Miller books over the years is that as a writer, he often works alone.  I know that’s not totally true, though.  He has editors, first readers, critics, and fans that he probably has a strong sense of responsibility for or connection to.  I also know that it’s a little different when you work in a place with dozens  . . . or even hundreds . . . of people, often over the course of each day, and five days each week.  It does something to you, living and working as part of an organization or institution.  I’m keenly aware of the fact that I have become much more of an institutionalized self over the last few years.  So I read Miller’s chapter on “the risk of being careful” with great interest and a strong sense of culpability.

Miller writes of the time he spent in Washington, DC, and how he found himself interacting with others in a way that went against the grain of the culture: “I always felt two whiskeys in while everybody I talked to was as polished as a news anchor.  I kept looking for cameras.”  That’s not an easy thing to handle when you’re used to a certain amount of vulnerability and candidness.  But when you live under a microscope, or when you come to be a representative for something bigger than yourself, the freedom to take risks diminishes.  Too much seems to be at stake.  And so play it safe, and safe has a way of scaling.

Miller writes of the time where he decided, after honest words with a friend, to write again with a sense of risk.  And I remember those moments on his blog where he said controversial things (like his discussion about church-going).  And I read the flak that he got in the comments section . . . and the support he received.  And while I may not always agree with him (or anyone else, for that matter), I have come to a better understanding of (1) the fluid nature of blogging [where everything is always in process] and (2) the fact that we as individuals can always be in process.  As such, we can’t be afraid to risk.  We should always strive to try.  Miller decided to write “as though God thought [his] voice mattered.”  He even made a list of a few things he wanted to feel more freedom in as he worked: the willingness to sound dumb, be wrong, and to express a theory are a few excerpts from the list.

It’s strange, the relationship between identity, institution, and predictability.  You can often be welcomed into the fold of a group or organization because you bring something new or different to the table.  Over time, though, the new and different becomes the predictable and expected.  It’s an inadvertent complacency.  To break out of that odd rut is no small thing (and potentially not something to be undertaken lightly or glibly).  It’s something I’m working on, something hopefully evidenced in a renewed commitment to post something on this site regularly . . . and with something more personal than just a comic strip or video.  I hope to show you evidence of some of my most recent “theories” next week.  But tomorrow will bring my last official “Reading Scary Close” post, my thoughts on the last main image from the book.  Good stuff.  Thanks for reading!

One of my favorite “story cycles” in Scary Close begins in the chapter wonderfully titled “Everybody’s Got a Story, and It’s Not the One They’re Telling.”  That part of the book deals with Miller’s struggles with childhood insecurity and self-preservation as he makes peace with his younger self.  It’s an odd mix for Miller, who realizes much of what he has become was a means of protecting that part of himself that first felt shame (“a dog peed on my coat”) while also realizing that for years he had been “sending a nine-year-old out to do all [his] performing.”  People really are amazing complicated, aren’t they?

It’s an interesting question: what do we do with our (many) selves?  We have them based on age, on interests, on geographical location.  I’ve even noticed that I have a differently nuanced self for each class that graduates (if that makes any sense).  And it’s easy to lose yourself in the mix.  I don’t mean “true self” necessarily.  But I do mean that deep and untouchable you, untouchable except for the God who made you.  That part of you that is “hidden in Christ.”  I can’t help but think of one of my favorite fictional characters, the Doctor.  From the moment we meet him (in his 9th incarnation, at least), he is on the run: from his enemies, from his recent past, and from himself.  It really isn’t until the 50th anniversary special, The Day of the Doctor, that he (quite literally) catches up with himself.  The moment is significant and amazing.

From Miller on making peace with that nine-year-old performing self:

The moment was powerful for me.  I’d completely disassociated from the kid who had taken apart his tape recorder.  I hardly knew him.  I’d not raised him to maturity and he’d spent the last thirty years lonely and desperate for attention.  It’s no wonder I hid from the world.  It’s not wonder parties made me tired or I got exhausted after I spoke.  It’s not wonder criticism made me angry or I overreacted to failure.  I think the part of me I sent out to interact with the world was, in some ways, underdeveloped, still trying to be bigger and smarter as a measure of survival.

Heaven help us catch up with ourselves, not to leave our selves behind.  And thank you, Jesus, for reconciling all things.

One of the benefits of reading is that it helps you find yourself, identify yourself through what you read. Here’s a point where I identified with Miller early in Scary Close:

At some point, I just stopped trusting people. I began to believe everybody viewed life as a contest, a subtle version of the Hunger Games. And to some degree I bought into the lie.

One of the things that angers me (rightly) about The Hunger Games is the sense of implication you get from every single person in the story. Striving to do good means selling out in some way. That includes me. The struggle, then, becomes extricating yourself from the “game” and moving to a better disposition.

Miller spends a good amount of time talking about manipulative people: scorekeepers, judges, false heroes, fearmongers, and floppers. If you’re anything like me, you are one of those each day of the work-week. Then Miller turns his attention to the better way to be: the safe person. These people, like Miller’s wife and friend David, are “truth tellers,” they offer grace, “the kind of grace in which they assume I’m a really great guy who’s just trying to figure things out, and they politely show me the error of my ways.” A safe person, Miller says through the view of authors Cloud and Townsend, is “somebody who speaks the truth in grace.”

I’m still trying to move away from a Hunger Games version of life. I’ve got my own idea of that that kind of life can look like, and I’ll get around to sharing it next week. When your implicated in a rigged game, and the Hunger Games view of life is definitely rigged, it takes both subtle and bold moves to get to a healthier place. That’s something reading Scary Close has reminded me of.