Christianity is not a one size fits all religion
I was thinking today, going through those little moments of doubt that we all have because we’re human (either that or I’m trying to justify my own deficiencies), and the question that occupied my mind this particular day was this:
If the Bible is the way to go, why is it only firm on a few points? Why doesn’t it cover many moral or ethical dilemmas?
For example, marriage and remarriage? Contraception?
Mulling it over, I came up with this answer:
Christianity is not a one size fits all religion. It’s to apply to everybody, and we’re all different. Some of us have certain scruples that others don’t share. In the end, there are few things we absolutely should or shouldn’t do, and a bunch of things that vary from person to person, situation to situation. So the basic, most important bits are in the Bible, but as for the rest of it, you have to seek God’s will.
Then I went and Googled this idea to see if I wasn’t just going off on a random, unsupported tangent, and lo and behold, I found Romans 14-15:7.
I guess maybe part of the reason we don’t have a bunch of clauses and articles in the Bible is so that we can grow in our relationship with God, get better at discerning when it’s Him, and even learn a little more about ourselves. Most importantly, so that we don’t get bogged down in the little stuff when it’s the big stuff that counts.
So that’s what I learned today.
You Know What I Want?
You know what I want?
I want to know how come we can read novels featuring an atheist protagonist in the general fiction section of a bookshop but a novel with a Christian protagonist gets shelved away under ‘Christian inspirational’ and goes off to a Christian book shop unless it’s PREACHER.
I want to know how come if Christianity is meant to be the way, why have we sequestered all its resources in Christian book shops, where nobody but Christians come.
I want to know how come all Christian ‘inspirational’ is termed bad writing, and even more, why it deserves that label, and why I can only think of about three Christian authors who write without a Deus ex Machina.
I want to know why you always read about the hypocritical Christians in novels, but you never read about the other 95%, the ones who really are on fire for God and just want to help people.
I wanna know why you never see books where the totally-godly Christian fouls up utterly and goes and has an affair or kills somebody or something and has to deal with it.
I wanna know if we’re too holy-holy to get close to, so much so that nobody knows what to do with us.
I wanna know what Jesus would do about this.
I want to know what we’re going to do about this.
Most of all, I want to make a difference.
On Anonymous Posting, or, Ego Indulgence
So the other day, I was on a musicians forum, and we were joking around about the worst emo songs we’d ever come across. It eventually turned into a ‘Name and Shame’ without the name.
There was a rather emo-ish song I’d written a few weeks ago–yes, you see where I’m going now, don’t you–and I thought, well, why not put it up there anonymously and have people say, “that wasn’t actually that bad”?
Apparently, my song was ‘completely lulzworthy, and check out this one!’.
Yeah. It hurt.
Ah, bruised egos. Actually, stupid bruised egos. I mean, what was I expecting from a name and shame (without the name) game? Even if they only half meant it, it’s still a blow.
Pride comes before a fall, I guess. I’m a little depressed, wondering whether or not to give songwriting up. I mean, people have always said I’ve got talent (cue boasting spree), but now I’m wondering if they were only trying to be nice. Then again, how will I get better if I don’t practice?
Not to mention that this is a little blow to my goodness streak. Wasn’t I trying to say, “Live and let live” about writers not so long ago? And now I start participating in a shame game.
I guess I deserved it.
A Note to One Particular Commentor
Hello. Thank you for commenting on my blog. Normally, your contribution would be welcomed. Unfortunately, your comment doesn’t seem to have anything to do with what I was posting about.
In fact, the subject of your comment is so different to that of my post that I am inclined to wonder if you even read my post at all. You’re not one of those trolls are you? I’ve heard of people like you, just trying to wreck my comments page for the satirical thrill of knowing that someone, somewhere, is trying to sift through every single one of the 148 comments you simultaneously posted on June 4th 2009, 2:20 am EST (thank you for your patronage), and tearing her hair out as she realises that none of them actually contribute something useful to what is meant to be a talking point, an amusing tale, or even just a rant at life in general.
But then again, you might have meant well, I suppose. You might have had the best of intentions, but it just came out wrong. In which case, are you sure you were replying to the right blog? Perhaps you had a second window open, and accidentally posted to the wrong one.
That’s perfectly understandable. If you left a valid email address or URL, I’m sure I could have tracked you down and notified you of your mistake. However, I think you might have made a spelling mistake in your URL, because I ended up being redirected to a rather inappropriate website.
In case you really were only trying to help, and you really did post to the ‘right’ blog, I suppose I’d better tell you right now that I’m not interested in V!agra, Vi@gra, just plain old Viagra, or any combination thereof. In fact, as I am not currently in a relationship, or even male (if you had paid more attention, you might have figured this out for yourself), you must admit that I would have:
a) absolutely no reason to need this product
b) just a little bit of trouble trying to use it
and
c) less than satisfactory results if I did use it.
You’d be getting complaints from me, and I’m sure that’s the last thing you want. After all, it’s all about keeping the customer happy, right?
Oh–look! You’ve posted yet another comment. And, again, it’s irrelevant! You’re not listening to anything I say, are you? I’m beginning to think you might not even be human at all…
Teenagers on a Road… Yep. Smart.
The teenager in question would be me.
Since you Big People see fit to whack me on the road with only my father and a couple of L plates between me and a hoarde of angry drivers, let me chronicle in detail what happened yesterday… The Day I Got My L Plates. (About a zillion years later than when I could’ve gotten them, because I am lazy.)
The first stupid thing I did was, having dragged my father all the way to the local DPI, not to have brought any ID. The conversation as we left the building went something like this:
“So. Um. I guess I should’ve brought some ID.”
“Yes.”
“But they didn’t tell me I needed… oh, well, I guess it was kinda obvious.”
“Well, yeah, Steph. Because, you see, people used to try and…”
And he was off and away about building up whole fake profiles on the strength of one driver’s license. Which, you know, sounds pretty cool to me, [DISCLAIMER:] even though I wouldn’t actually do it.
Eventually, we went back to the DPI, with ID, and got my license. But not before I realised that Dad hadn’t been informed of the $68.30 learner permit cost.
That was the second stupid thing I did. He paid, but he was rather bemused, and a little annoyed (thank goodness he got over it so quickly).
“I thought I was just provider of transport, not finance.”
I cringed.
He joked about “silly girls who didn’t bring money with them” to the lady who served us.
I cringed again, though I suppose I deserved it. At least he was getting out his bank card as he spoke. (Later, he told me not to worry about paying him back.)
Then we went for my first real drive on a road. And at this point, I’m going to stop counting the idiotic things I did, and just start listing them.
Two minutes in, I got distracted by this piece of yellow paper that was half stuck to the road, half flapping about madly. It looked like it might be a McDonald’s wrapp–no, wait, Steph, keep your eyes on the road!
It was like that the whole way–I was constantly discovering new things that were actually quite normal. I felt like a toddler (albeit, one who could drive) on red cordial.
After almost crashing into a dark car, Dad said, “You’d better put the headlights on, then, Stephie.”
I said, “Will the indicators still work?”
After he stopped laughing, all was quiet for a couple of minutes. Then I accidentally turned onto the main road. Cars abounded. I was quietly hyperventilating in my seat. Dad goes, “Okay, Steph, turn now. No, turn now!”
Following instructions for once in my life, I turned out of the traffic. Now that doesn’t sound too bad until I tell you that I turned too late and almost crashed into another car.
No wonder they hate L-platers. I’m beginning to hate them, myself.
At this point, Dad made me pull over so I could regain a normal breathing pattern. The heartbeat took a while longer. He called it ‘information overload’. I wouldn’t exactly have called it that…
We went home soon after.
And I’ve discovered something. My Dad is a lot braver than I thought he was. *salutes*
On Warm Fuzzies
I said to Mum the other day: “What are you gonna do when we all leave home?”
She looked at me with a slightly squished expression, as though she was trying not to cry, and said, in a voice that sounded a little choked-up, “Quite honestly, I don’t even want to think about it.”
I had no idea she loved me that much. Not that I didn’t think she loved me before, just… wow.
She doesn’t even want to think about us not being there. As though we’re her life or something.
I had no idea you could love anyone that much.
A Lucky Escape in Disguise
Someone left my cake out in the rain. Metaphorically speaking, of course. I had a nice jam-and-excitement sponge freshly baked when a girl I know slightly caught me editing fanfiction (oh, shame of shames, but I won’t go into that since I believe I already have). She went into raptures for a couple of minutes, then said, “Oh, can you take a look at something I wrote? I’ll pay you.”
I was expecting a short story, even a oneshot. Something pretty small. Turns out she wrote a book. Well, when I say ‘book’, I should probably clarify that it was a sequel to another book she’d written. Now, at this point, she let me know that she wrote the book in two weeks, but since she had already been accepted by publishers before, I didn’t see the problem. Agatha Christie’s been known to do it. And my editing would be getting noticed.
As you might imagine, I was getting excited. Really excited. I thought, “here’s the chance for me to rack up some real work on a resume. Not to mention actually earn some money…”
Then it turned out that it was a horror book, with plenty of sex and swearing in it to boot. Cue rain. Cue thunderclouds. Cue the whole shebang.
I hate horror in a novel. It’s either so weak and watery it’s in danger of fainting when it discovers it exists, or it’s so well done that clinking chains and grinning, giggling skulls haunt my nightmares for weeks. “Whatever is pure, whatever is true,” yadda yadda [insert Bible stuff here]. Horror? As if.
I hate sex in a novel. It’s cheap and it glorifies immorality (yes, I am old-fashioned. So sue me. It’s not a bad thing to be), and it isn’t just something I’m spouting because I have to; I truly believe that.
Evanescence frontwoman Amy Lee once said, “The more skin I show, the less people think I write my own songs.” In other words, capitalising on sexual selling points devalues things. People no longer think things are coming from an artist’s heart. Instead, they’re thinking about… well, I think you know what I mean. Art becomes little more than glorified squee. And that’s true of writing, too.
I hate swearing in a novel. It doesn’t need to be there. It’s thrown in for shock value and ‘realism’, when in reality, you can get by without people even noticing that it’s been ommitted. You just need to do it well. (Note: In case you throw this one at me, Twilight is not a good example. Reference the number of times Bella says ‘holy crow’.)
So. Sex. Swearing. Horror. As a Christian, I can’t even be associated with this. It’s not snobbery, it’s just reputation. How am I supposed to say I’m a Christian and hold my head high if I actively contribute to this project?
So I turn it down.
And believe me: I am kicking myself at this point, going, “Why? Why? WHY??? I had this great opportunity, it could’ve gone somewhere, I would’ve gotten valuable experience, etcetera, etcetera, and why the heck do I have to have scruples?”
She wanted me to look over it, anyway. I am such a glutton for punishment that I told her I would, if only to see what I’ve missed out on.
And it was rubbish. I don’t know how it was sold. Nothing I could do would have saved it, and I wouldn’t have gained anything from it by giving it a go. It would have been a waste of my time and my conscience, and her money.
So, in metaphorical terms, my cake was baked with salt instead of sugar anyway.
Now the question is: how do I give this manuscript back to her without implying that I think it’s terrible?
On Editing FanFiction
Today, Michael Jackson died. I suppose I hardly need to say it, so that’s pretty much it for celeb-news in this page. I came here to rant, and so I shall. Here we go:
Editing for others is very tiring. A simple 600-word chapter can take me two hours. And that’s only the first draft. What follows is a volley of back-and-forths, during which I edit and they make changes and send it back, I make more changes, they send it back, etc.
The last 600-worder merited four drafts. Four. Four!
Scary, huh? And that doesn’t even include the “hey, are you done yet?” emails. Believe me, they run both ways. And then the reader/reviewers are always asking, “Can’t you go any faster?”.
Well, if I’m honest, the answer is probably yes. Yes, I could. But. What do you think I am, a professional? Are you paying me? No. Therefore, no matter how much I’d love to–and believe me, I’d love to–I can’t give your writing a higher priority. Being exhaustive is also exhausting, you know.
(Query: do people who actually get paid for it spend this long on a piece of writing? Editing for content and stylistic improvements, as well as pure proof-reading? From some of the books I’ve read, I cannot believe this is so. /snark.)
And this is fanfic I’m editing! Nothing that’s going to be around for posterity. Nothing that’s going to leave a mark, of whatever impact, on the world. Though I write fanfiction myself, I don’t write long pieces. This is for the simple reason that I want to have something to show for all the time I spend at a computer. No amount of mere reviews is going to cut it. At the end of however many years I spend perfecting and tweaking, I want a book placed in my hands, whether it be my own writing or somebody else’s.
Quite honestly, I don’t know why I bother. Don’t get me wrong, I love to help improve writing and make it better (and then sigh like a proud parent –even though I’m more like a midwife/plastic surgeon combo. Now that’s an odd one), but so much talent is just wasted there. Wasted.
I’ve got to get out of fanfiction.
Scary Earthquake! Not!
Well. Somehow, I thought my first earthquake experience would be… well, exciting. (Whether or not I was quaking with terror at the time.) This morning was something of an anticlimax, I must say.
I was woken up by a violent shiver throughout the house. It went on for about two seconds, maybe more.
Now, see, what you need to understand is that I live kinda near a minesite. So I just thought it was an early blast. I rolled over and went back to sleep, and had a nightmare about all my teeth falling out.
As a side note, I have passed a big milestone: that of surviving an earthquake. Don’t they give out medals for that, or something?
