Inspired: Why My Church Isn't In A Church

A few weeks ago, I was running around the lake at a local park. It was about 84 degrees outside, and of course, I selected a dark gray shirt with a thick breast cancer emblem on the back of it to run in {not my most intelligent moment}. The shirt declares,

failure is not an option

As I was running {rather, while I was dying and about to fall over from heat stroke}, an older gentleman came up beside me, and said, "Hey, I just wanted to let you know that your shirt inspires me. Do you have breast cancer?"

I politely said no, but the cause is important to me. He responded with a 15 minute story about how he had stage 4 cancer, but miraculously survived because of the grace of Jesus Christ, and he now believes it is his purpose in life to witness to that grace to everyone he meets {apparently also including random strangers at North Park}. The whole thing was a little cheesy: a person was "inspired" by a lame saying on my shirt, a guy telling me about the healing power of Jesus Christ... I mean, that's nice and all, it's just not my thing. Rather than inspire me, that kind of thing just makes me cynical and skeptical.

The weird thing was there was something about that conversation that wasn't cheesy, wasn't corny...something about that conversation that did inspire me.

As I ran on, I thought about all the motivational speeches, the inspirational posters, the slogans, the patriotic anthems and theme songs, all this stuff that's supposed to "inspire" us toward achievement.

{barf...}

{oh GAWDDD...}

{seriously, Confucius? i refuse to believe he said that...}

I don't know about you, but in my world, inspiration has become a dirty word. Only crazy artists, surface-y college students, and marching band enthusiasts use the word "inspiration;" it's a word that is owned by weirdos. When a person talks about being inspired, I instantly believe they are not actually a part of the real world.

Which kind of stinks really, because it shouldn't have to be that way. Inspiration or to inspire comes from Latin {the King of all languages} the verb "spirare" to breathe, connected in some way to "spiritus" meaning spirit. Other languages do this too: in Greek, we have pneuma which is spirit or breath, and in Hebrew, we have ruach, also spirit or breath. What I love is how this reflects life: those who have life have breath, and those who have breath have a spirit. Genesis 2.7:

then the LORD God breathed into his {Adam's} nostrils the breath of life; and the man became a living being

I love that image: that our life is breathed into us, and that life and breath and being come from God. Crudely, I almost imagine the scene from Flight when Denzel Washington, a pilot, wakes up with a terrible hangover, and does a line of cocaine to come alive, so to speak. The filming zooms in on his eyes as they fill with life from the cocaine. {heretical side note...God is our cocaine...wait...}

So this leads me to wonder if we thought of "inspiration" as God's breath of life popping up in our lives. What if we thought of "inspiration" as the things in life that catch our breath and burn a fire in our hearts? Where would God show up if God wasn't limited to inspiring people on Sunday mornings?

And that's just it. It's been a long time when the church has felt inspiring. Somewhere between mishandling limited funds and condescending church signs, between the blame game and round-about communication, between an all out brawl over donut holes and intergenerational arguments over clean kitchens, somewhere in this complete mess we call church, we lost our spiritus, our ability to spirare. I'm so tired of settling for lifeless; I'm so tired of the lonely, uphill battle for the spirituality of the next generation; I'm so tired of bickering, backstabbing, and bigotry. While I know I can and have felt the breath of God in a church event, it is honestly no longer the first place I look.

And this is why my church isn't always in a church. Because lately, God has been breathing {cocaine-energy-level} life into the ordinary mud and clay of my life. Here are a few examples:

I am inspired at Pittsburgh Pirates games, where 20,000 strangers become friends, and as a family, we dare to dream of the future. I believe God's breath of life is present in the thrill of the crowd and the faithful who stay to the bitter end.

I am inspired by actual new life. By babies who have their own personalities at day 1, by landmarks and growth in just a few short weeks, but mostly by parents who make it work no matter what it takes. I believe God's breath of life is present in a mom as she carefully watches others coddle her child, that God's breath of life is present in a new dad, as he changes his 50th diaper of the day.

I am inspired by 20,000 odd runners from around the country coming together for the Pittsburgh marathon. But mostly, I see God's breath of life in strangers cheering on the sidelines, in a man holding a young runner up as she pushes forward to the finish-line, in runners stopping to check on an injured stranger who has stepped to the side of the race. As I ran, I thought to myself, "well, I'm glad I get to be outside and not stressing about church today." Suddenly it dawned on me: this is my church. 

Outside of the walls of the church, I wonder where you have seen and experienced the inspiring breath of God at work in the world...

Anxiety: Starvation for the Heart

In exactly 68 hours, I will be running in my first ever half-marathon {a what?}. I've been running regularly for more than a year, and I started really training (running more than 6 miles for a long run each week) in January. My longest run was 11 miles, which I completed a couple of weeks ago, and I haven't gone more than a day without some kind of run (even if it was only 1.5 miles) for more than 6 months. I've purchased and run many miles in my race outfit and shoes; I've run parts of the course and driven the full course. By every standard I can find on the internet, I'm as prepared as I can be.

And yet, this week I have been subject to crippling anxiety.

I call it crippling because I know that it has the ability to destroy my ability to run this race. I call it crippling because I feel desperate, breathless, and isolated. I call it crippling because this truly is the place where the physical meets the mental and causes me to implode.

The fact is that I know I'm capable of completing this race. I have a ton of confidence in my ability and in my training, but I am terrified of the other pieces of the puzzle.

What if I didn't actually register?

What if I show up late or sleep in?

What if my fuel food {aka Twizzler bites} fall out of my iPod holder {aka an old sock}?

What if I choke on water?

What if my allergies are so bad I can't breathe?

What if I catch a cold? Or worse, the stomach flu?

What if this is the week my insoles are too worn out and cause me foot cramps?

What if...

A lot of people think {and say to me} that anxiety over a race or a big event is "normal" and it's something I can control.

You'll be fine.

What are you worried about?

Get some rest and don't worry about it.

The reality is, I'm not sure I have a ton of control over my anxiety. Now, I'll put out a caveat: I have never been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder, nor do I have a daily issue with anxiety. So I cannot speak for those who suffer with this regularly. But I can tell you that my body responds to anxiety whether I think about it or not. I have trouble sleeping; I wake up in a cold sweat; I have horrendous dreams about the "worst case scenario." My digestion situation is questionable, and I've even gotten violently ill. {And the worst part about this week is that running is my go-to anxiety reliever, but I have to taper back in order to have fresh legs for the race...rawr!!!}

It's as though my heart is starving for rest. I'm not starving for, "Everything is going to be OK." I'm not starving for, "Even if you don't finish, look at how far you've come." I'm not starving for, "Just the training is an accomplishment in itself." I'm not even starving to not run the race. In fact, I have this feeling that quitting would only increase my anxiety. I am starving for rest, for release, for relief. I am starving for those great deep breaths at the end of a long run, for that shudder as sweat begins to cool on my back.

Between now and 68 hours from now, I know I will be drenched in anxiety, dwelling in this starvation. I know the true cure lies at that finish line, but I'm wishing I had some better quick fixes to keep myself stable until I get there.