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I think the Internet makes it more difficult than ever to be myself. Messages bombard me, persuading and cajoling and berating.

“Listen to this!”

“Agree with me!”

“Think the way that I think!”

Even worse, if you’re a people-pleaser like me, you find your true identity evaporating in an attempt to keep everyone happy, to prove to everyone that you somehow agree with them. In an era where your beliefs make you smart and important in the eyes of those with whom you agree, it is tempting to walk that subtle line of conformity. It is far too easy to be devastated by the unkind contradiction of a stranger.

We are a culture where the individual is quickly defined by what she believes. “He’s a democrat.” “She’s a libertarian.” “He believes in legalizing same-sex marriages.” “She’s pro-life.” “He’s an Eagles’ fan.” “She doesn’t like Nutella.” And after hearing even one of these pieces of information about someone, it’s so easy to fill in the rest of the gaps, to turn them into a caricature, to reduce them to a flat character about whom we know everything we could possibly need to know.

Beliefs: the litmus test of our culture.

And, as has been the case in far too many instances, Christianity conforms to culture. Christians of every ilk set up idols of particular beliefs, polarizing themselves into camps of Correct and Incorrect. This, it seems, is where we find ourselves in the waning days of 2012: grasping desperately for beliefs, as if holding dearly to the right ones is the last thing keeping our civilization from complete and utter annihilation.

Beliefs have become our salt and light. Taking the “correct” position on every issue imaginable has become our way of declaring the Good News. It’s no wonder church attendance is dwindling and the broader culture is becoming increasingly disenchanted with Christianity – when the message of Good News has been watered down to consenting to various positions or beliefs, the Good News transforms into the Right News. Which is actually rather annoying, and not much fun to listen to or to help spread.

Most of us Christians today, mistaking “right belief” for saltiness, have lost the very trait of saltiness about which Jesus spoke: love. Helping the poor (and not JUST voting for the candidate whose policies we think will benefit them). Jesus’ saltiness means having a love for our neighbor that transcends whatever belief system we espouse.

When Jesus encouraged his followers to be salt and light, these words weren’t couched alongside some sort of list of correct beliefs. No, his exhortation to be salt and light comes during his Sermon on the Mount – it’s mixed in with wisdom on the importance of the posture of one’s heart; he names as “blessed” people who are merciful and meek and peacemakers (adjectives describing action, a way of life), not those possessing or understanding of correct doctrine.

Jesus more closely associates salt and light with good deeds than good beliefs. Soon after the salt and light metaphor, he challenges the cultural paradigm of loving your neighbor and hating your enemy and says, “But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.” He never said, “Make sure someone knows what you believe before you help them.” He never said, “Love them only after they fully understand that you believe what they are doing is wrong.”

This is salt and light: not right beliefs, but love.

I’m afraid for Christianity today. I’m afraid that we’ve gone so far down the path paved by “correct” beliefs that we have lost the only trait that could make us truly salty: radical love, not only for the poor and downtrodden, but also (perhaps more incredibly) for one another.

But if the salt loses its saltiness, how can it be made salty again? It is no longer good for anything, except to be thrown out and trampled underfoot.

Are we Christians good for anything anymore? Can we still be salt and light through our deeds, our acts of love? Or, leaning increasingly on our beliefs to serve as that which makes us different, are we suitable only to be trampled underfoot?

“Tales of Creativity and Play” is TED speech given by Tim Brown. Are you ashamed of what you create, or are you excited to share it with your fears? What role does playfulness have in creativity and productivity?

Some excerpts from my favorite blog posts of the last week:

* * * * *

“What a relief it is to hear someone say, you can do better.”

* * * * *

“…and some days, it’s hard for me to know how building a retreat space for writers and musicians will really make a difference to people living in poverty, to children being trafficked as slaves, to women forced into prostitution, to the homeless.  Sometimes, I feel like my dream is so selfish.“

* * * * *

“It’s true, sometimes God says no. And we may not like it or agree. But we trust that even in his no, there is a yes, waiting to be revealed.”

* * * * *

“I come home from a third world country and I keep it moving.  We had a hard year last year that in many unstoppable ways keeps bleeding into the present.  It’s simply too much to process except in bits and pieces, over time, in-between snuggles and arguments and houseguests and memories.”

* * * * *

“I’ve brought you here today to send you away. Normally I want a lot of readers and a lot of traffic, but I don’t want you here today. I want you to go elsewhere.”

* * * * *

“Obama is getting my vote. I think he’s the better choice. But I do wish that he would talk about assassinations and drone strikes in a way that shows these killings are somewhat troubling to his conscience as a Christian. Because everyone I talk to — liberals and conservatives — think that we should go for a few years with no new wars.”

* * * * *

“It does not seem unreasonable to me that as a Christian I both affirm the truth of Christ and also maintain the very real possibility that I’m wrong. To be sure, that is a difficult tension to maintain, but not impossible. And that is not a weakness of faith, or a lack of faith, but a realistic faith that entertains the possibility that I am mistaken.”

 

Every so often a car swept by the graveyard, and I wondered why they didn’t stop and join us. It felt like everyone should be there with us, remembering. The sky was blue and we walked back through the headstones. There, my grandfather’s grave. There, my cousin who died at 18 months of age.

One of my cousin’s kids, a small boy with white-blond hair and fresh skin, toddled around the gravestones. He would stop, bend awkwardly at the knees and study the flowers left by recent mourners. He was fascinated by the American flags that quivered in the breeze.

Then he meandered over to the large pile of dirt just behind my grandmother’s grave site. He considered climbing it, then decided against it, and off he went through the green grass, moving slowly over so many buried stories.

They lowered my grandmother’s casket into the ground, and my aunt surprised us by saying that she wanted to bury Grandma in the Amish tradition, with family members shoveling the dirt back into the grave by hand. So my cousins and I stepped forward, each of us grabbing a shovel. At first the crowd was quiet, and I could hear the chunks of dirt falling into the hole. But as we progressed, something changed.

The crowd that was my family loosened up. They started to talk and laugh. Those of us digging broke into a sweat and, chuckling, asked for someone to take our place. The children joined in the process, adding their own feeble attempts, dumping tiny amounts of dirt into the hole.

And the dirt was a muddy clay that stuck to my boots, made my feet feel heavy. It was messy. And it was beautiful.

* * * * *

Ours is a culture obsessed with sanitizing life, and not just in the physical or chemical sense. We want everything to line up with some unattainable standard, devoid of messiness or intrusion. Funeral services are to remain silent. Learning should be on point. Churches present their Statements of Faith as things which should not even be discussed. Children are expected to behave like robots.

Can we become brave enough to leave room for some mess? Can we care less about modern sensitivities and more about meaning? Can we come to appreciate life in all of its unsanitized beauty?

* * * * *

Later, when the grave was filled, all nearly-100-of-us walked back to the church. We took off our shoes and left them outside, went in and ate lunch. Our voices grew louder and louder, the collective effort of people trying to be heard. 31 great-grandchildren finished eating quickly, raided the dessert table, then turned the hall into a race track.

When I left with Maile and the kids, I marveled at all of those shoes lined up outside the church. Their tangled laces and muddy soles were a testament to the woman we had come to mourn and celebrate.

Life = mess.

There’s been a lot of death and disappointment in this part of the world recently. There was my grandmother’s passing, but there was also something else, something that I’ll write about when it’s time. For now the whole thing is still seeping through my consciousness, and it will have to wait.

It’s hard to know when the time is right, you know? It’s tough to tell when that thing can’t be held in any longer, when it demands the attention that only words on a page can give – words that stare back up at you defiantly, or shrug indifferently, or meander over into dark corners where they turn their backs and cast leering glances over their shoulders.

Words can be so petulant. And untrustworthy. And crucial.

* * * * *

During my grandmother’s viewing, my friend Tom came up to talk to me. He’s a trucker and has been for as long as I can remember. Maile and I met up with him in Iowa once, about a million years ago, and he and I ate at a diner and I ordered chili and grilled cheese and he told me all about life on the road.

So I was glad to see him when he came to the viewing.

“You’re not going to believe what I read in the paper last week,” he said. “A truck driver went over the Teton Pass, lost his brakes, and crashed at the bottom.”

“What?” I asked, shocked, and that eerie feeling rose up inside of me, the same feeling I get whenever I remember what it’s like to push a brake pedal all the way to the floor and still be picking up speed.

“Yeah,” he said, shaking his head. “He couldn’t make the last turn. The truck rolled over the edge, and the driver was killed.”

* * * * *

I remember that last turn going down into Wilson. The picture above is of our bus being towed around the last corner, where we so easily could have lost our lives, had we not driven up the emergency truck ramp about two miles before.

And with all of that comes the realization that, even with all of the recent death and disappointment, there is still so much grace. So much mercy. Mercy enough to keep me going.

Mercy enough to keep me looking for the next emergency truck ramp, because right now it sure feels like we could use one.

“So you’ll be here when I get back?” he asks, climbing into the back seat of the car.

“Yep, I promise,” I say from where I’m standing at the door inside the garage.

“And your sure everything will be okay?” he asks.

“I think everything will be fine,” I say.

“Will you wave from the front porch?”

“Um, no I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Because I”m in my boxers,” I say.

“Oh, right,” he says, laughing.

For all of his delay-tactics and stalling, I have to give my son some credit: he sure knows how to make a good-bye last. Me on the other hand? I’m not a big fan of good-byes.

Whether I’m faring-thee-well to my favorite season, people I love, or hopes for a particular future, I’m just not very good at saying good-bye. I’m lousy at remaining in that moment of relinquishment. I want to barely wave and then run to the next thing.

Recently I’ve started to wonder if my good-byes are deficient because I force myself to get past them. I don’t embrace the farewell. I push myself away from the point of divergence as quickly as I can and try to forget about it instead of facing it, savoring it, even when it hurts.

Today we say good-bye to my grandmother. We’ll have a service commemorating her 92 years, we’ll laugh and cry with friends and family, and then we’ll all stand around a hole in the ground and lower her body into the earth. For you were made from dust, and to dust you will return.

There have been other difficult good-byes in the last few days. Feels like it’s been hailing good-byes! Painful ones, too, the kind you want to sprint away from as fast as possible. But I’m determined that this time around I will not rush it. I won’t push the farewells away. I’ll soak them in, learn what I can from them, and even allow them to change me.

“And your sure everything will be okay?” he asks.

“I think everything will be fine,” I say.

* * * * *

How do you make your good-byes count?