It's a book full of filthy words and controversial ideas that you might not agree with. But enough about the Bible, the book is called Disquiet Time and Cathleen Falsani is one of the editors (along with Jennifer Grant) of this quirky, beautiful, often empathetic collection of "Rants and Reflections on the Good Book by the Skeptical, the Faithful, and a Few Scoundrels." I recently asked Cathleen a few questions and this is what she had to say:
You wrote a book about grace called Sin Boldly. I always like to ask: How did you first encounter grace, or was it a concept that was always there for you, as a Christian?
I think seeing and experiencing grace is something I was (and we all are) hard-wired to do from birth. I couldn't tell you the first time I encountered grace but I'm sure it was long before I had the language to call it "grace."
Reading Disquiet Time, to me, was a solitary experience compared to reading other Christian works. There was a different mouth-feel to it, if you will. I never felt like the writers were over-spiritualizing their experiences or hedging on their honesty. It was refreshing. To what do you contribute that type of honesty and freedom?
It was likely the result of a two-part invention: we (Jen Grant and I, as editors) offered them the total freedom to "speak what we feel, not what we ought to say" and the authors — each one of them — had the guts, courage, and audacity to take us up on it and actually write from the deepest places of their hearts and minds. To a person, they opened a vein and didn't self-censor. I think that made all the difference in the world.

Was there a piece in Disquiet Time that you felt explained, or explored, something in a new way to you personally? (For instance, your piece, Slut!, was an eye-opening look to me at the girl who would be called Salome.)
It's terribly difficult to narrow it down to one piece, but I can say there is one in particular that I keep returning to almost daily: Susan Isaacs' chapter "The Bible: Full of Sound, Fury, Sarcasm, and Poop Jokes." I adore Susan, her mind, sense of humor, and humble faith. It's the passage in there that talks about Jesus employing sarcasm — my native language — that gave me the gift of seeing his humanity in a different way, a facet I hadn't noticed before, and one with which I resonate deeply but long had thought (and been told by some of my coreligionists) didn't belong in the life of a Christian — particularly not in the life of a girl or woman trying to follow Jesus. Take that, naysayers!
One thing I see in Disquiet Time is a freedom to explore and question one’s faith. Why do you think it is that we’re so uptight about doing that as followers of Jesus?

In a word: FEAR. We're so afraid of "doing it wrong," of doubt and doubting, of misunderstanding, misinterpretation, questions-without-answers, and not knowing that we'd rather "fake it" than authentically, genuinely, honestly engage with scripture on its own terms and ours. It's as if we somehow believe God doesn't really know what we're thinking or feeling about what we read in the Bible (or anything else for that matter).
 
I always like to know what fellow writers are reading. So, what’s on your bedside table right now, Cathleen?

Watch for the Light: Readings for Advent and Christmas, The Soul of Rumi by Coleman Burks, Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts, Wild by Cheryl Strayed, Main Lines, Blood Feasts, and Bad Taste by Lester Bangs, and Why I Wake Early by Mary Oliver.
We all have this place inside of us that we store it all. The socially unacceptable, the irreligious ideas, the things that would lose friends and uninspire people. Questions, worries and doubts that we know we can’t share, but ache to say. That place is quickly cramped and uncomfortable, tearing at its seams.

It’s hard for me to find a church. I want to, but when I go, I just end up leaving angrier than when I came. The judgment, the silly rules, the passive-aggressive jabs. It’s weird when you’ve been on the inside. You see things more clearly. Know all the abominable tricks.

Some friends and I got together the other night to talk about that. How we could maybe get that need met with each other. The Church without the junk. Well, not that kind of junk anyway—not the plastic kind. But full to the brim with the real deal. All those socially unacceptable, irreligious ideas. That was when I realized that’s what I’d been longing for all along.

The superficial judgment I felt in church, the rules I balked at, and the jabs that made me want to jab back weren’t the main things keeping me away. They were symptoms. They were walls that kept me from my soul’s need to unburden itself.

In my relationship with God, I found freedom. I found permission to tell the truth, because a) God’s not fooled by my self-righteous act, and b) God loves me anyway. It was no wonder that I wanted that from the local gathering of fellow Christians that I attended: The freedom to share the unshareable.

It’s only unshareable because we’ve so spiritualized our churches that we can’t actually be honest with one another. We have to fake it. I don’t want that anymore. Frankly, I don’t need that anymore. It makes me soul sick. (There’s a vast difference between loving correction and nitpicking, moralistic narcissism.)

Our hearts yearn to be heard without fear of judgment. Our souls feel tight and cramped in the phony religious box in which we’ve allowed ourselves to be placed. True worship flourishes in raw truth. When we dump our doubts and fears out on the floor, a warm, wet mess for all to see, and watch them shrivel and die in the light, a song of praise finds our tongues.

Our deepest hurts lie hidden because we refuse to acknowledge that others can bear them. We refuse to acknowledge that they even exist so—like unseen plaque in our arteries—they build up like a dam, threatening death to our faith and fellowship.

To openly hurt, to stand naked for all to see, is no easy feat. It takes Gospel guts. It takes a full knowledge of God’s love for us, and that he has paid for our sins. That Jesus’ death wasn’t a band-aid, but the full cure.

To have those that accept us with no judgment as we stand before them, every blemish visible, is a gift beyond measure. In Genesis, God looked at his perfect creation and said something was missing. He said, it’s not good for man to be alone. Was that an accident? Did God forget to add a dash of self-sufficiency? Of course not. We were purposefully made to need others.

That need is where our desire to be heard comes from. It is the very reason we have that place in us that we store it all. We’re waiting for someone who will listen. We’re waiting for open ears and open hearts. It’s the only thing that will allow us to shrug off that burden.

So, watch.

Listen.


And don’t just unpack. Look for opportunities to take part in the wonderful, filthy business of helping unpack the pain of others also.




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They keep telling me I’m forgiven. A choir of trumpet-wielding Angels could sing the message to me in three-part harmony and I'd tell them I'd have to think about it. But sometimes it sneaks up on me. The message finds its way through the maze of pride in my crinkly brain and sets up shop. Then I wonder why I ever questioned, what I ever thought could be better than full acceptance based on the work of anotherJesus himself.

That lasts about a day. 

It's a vicious cycle.

I start wanting to do something in return. That's not a bad thing, mind you. That's where it should come from--a response of love to an act of ultimate love. We love him because he first loved us, and all that. It's the part where my perfectionism starts me rolling back down that hill, Jack and Jill style. Then I need to hear the gospel all over again.

Vicious.

I know, I’m neurotic. But that’s what makes sense to me. It seems illogical for me to be less than perfect, even if I’m loved no matter how badly I screw it up. Because then I feel like I’m just phoning it in. I'm taking advantage of God's grace. But then I fail and fail and fail. I feel like one of those ropes that dogs tug on, and there’s a bulldog on both ends and neither will let go.

Really vicious.

That’s been a recurring theme in my life since I became a Christian. God tells me to trust him, and I'm like, "No, I totally got this, man." I feel like Rocky in that first movie—where he lost—getting knocked down by the bigger, stronger, faster and better boxer of my own sin. Eyes swelling shut, I keep getting up. My pride won't let me do anything less. I get a few good punches in and the bell rings. Sweet mercy. I can call a day. I can say I’ve had enough. Where’s that towel? All I can think about is rest (and maybe those few good punches), but when the next round starts, I find myself rising, stumbling toward failure. Bell after damnable bell, I fight, until I'm done.

But I don’t win Apollo Creed’s grudging respect. I don’t get the girl. I don't get an adoring crowd. I get nothing. I’m bloodied and beaten and I’ve lost. Because I tried to do it myself.

All that said, I admire the irrational need I have to be perfect. I see it as some misguided outcome of my sanctification. A twisted desire to move more quickly into purification. So it’s a go… What’s that? It’s pride? –Laughs dismissively- It’s not pride. It’s just…

Crap.

Yeah… it's pride.

Here’s the thing: I do know we're not capable of achieving perfection. It’s literally like thinking that if you try hard enough you can fly. And I’m not using hyperbole. No exaggeration here. I mean that. Literally. Because, if you’re like me, you don’t always fully grasp that this is exactly how far we are from achieving perfection.

Not possible.

But I still try to do it alone.

I want to add a but. Yeah, I know it’s impossible, but It doesn’t hurt to try. No, it doesn’t hurt to try. Not at all. Not if you love being mentally and physically drained, feeling like a failure and finally running away because you can’t go on anymore.

That’s the other option. Seriously.

God didn’t come and live a sinless life and die a sinner’s death as some sort of backup plan. Drastic measures highlight a drastic need. That need is ours. While what God wants is perfect, it can’t be done by us. It had to be done for us.

But I still try to do it myself. 
And, so, for the billionth time I will, with a sour stomach and aching head, go to God and ask him what he wants me to do. How I can please him. Maybe I'll listen this time when his reply to me is the same as the one he gave to those who asked in John 6:28-29: “Then they said to him, ‘What must we do, to be doing the works of God?’ Jesus answered them, ‘This is the work of God, that you believe in him whom he has sent.’” 

Apart from him. I can't do it. And that hurts.

So, while my ego is left shredded on the floor at the knowledge that even my good works are like filthy rags (Is. 64:6), he goes on, trying to get me to see the hope in this: John 15:4:Remain in me, as I also remain in you. No branch can bear fruit by itself; it must remain in the vine. Neither can you bear fruit unless you remain in me.”

My will. My strength. Worthless apart from him. (John 15:5)

BUT... 

When I let him love me, in that love I find myself changed. You will too. You’ll find that you love more and forgive more easily. You’ll have strange bouts of patience and find yourself giggling at inappropriate times. Because, as a branch, you got nothing. But when we're connected to the Vine, we grow and produce good fruit.

It’s not guilt that guides us. It isn’t shame that pushes us toward the finish line. It is love that constrains us. (2 Cor. 5:14)  Stop putting all your energy into yourself and start putting your trust in Jesus. Anything else...

Impossible.

But, with God…





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Check out this new post on Dropping Keys' website: "My pipe-dream is now a reality," where Kimm Crandall talks about the big changes taking place there. ow.ly/FasJZ