"May I kill it?"

An introduction
I have progressed past dragging my feet on this particular post. If you think of the writing process as some sort of path through the woods, I believe you’d find me off to the side, taking a nap. It’s been a long time since I’ve struggled to articulate my thoughts to this degree. My feeling is that it’s important to me – a lesson, a confession and knowledge that I require to move forward successfully.

But once it’s written, it’s real. I’ve said it – skipping parts and stammering through words. But there’s something about writing it out, changing the order of paragraphs, considering the points and the context surrounding them. Trying to tell a cohesive story and explaining my conclusions. My goal isn’t to make you understand anything profound – I have long understood that what works for me isn’t what works for everyone. My hope is that people figure out their faiths to the extent that they’re able. Which is what I’m attempting to do. I’m just finding it difficult.

My typical strategy when I can’t get something written is to start adding headings. They cut out the struggle with transitions. There’s just some bold text that says “Now I shall talk about something else.” And I acknowledge that anyone who reads is more than capable of fitting it all together. That being said, this post is going to be long, and it’s highly unlikely to be elegant.

You’re not obligated to read this, but I’d like it if you would. The one recurring theme is that my faith and thoughts are highly influenced by external sources. I have a great deal left to understand and always appreciate hearing what people have observed or discovered. But here is the current state of my thoughts.


A book report
In the preface of The Great Divorce, CS Lewis discusses how there must be a break from what I love in this world. Not a short-term blip where God becomes momentarily important, but an acknowledgement that I am not meant for this world. I believe there is something after death and that being here has a purpose. But part of life is distractions – very, very tempting ones. As I search for purpose – satisfying work, wonderful friends, the hope that I’ll be able to create a family, acquiring animals to cuddle and care for, searching for love to give and receive, finding joy and enduring pain – I find it to be so compelling. So vividly real that it naturally demands so much of my awed attention that there isn’t a lot left for the ethereal spiritual concepts.

Lewis flips that around. Puts world-obsessed souls in Heaven - a place so substantial, so dense and heavy and real, that you can see through the ghosts. They’re transparent, so delicate that the grass hurts their feet as they stand on it. The narrator is unable to muster the strength to lift a single leaf. And even in the presence of such greatness, the ghosts eventually flee - return to Hell – a grey town - because it’s more of a known factor – comfortable to some extent. As the ghosts meet the angels sent to help them upon their arrival, they give various reasons for wanting to leave the spectacular place – so full of light and promise and joy they can’t access for various reasons. One wants to continue to use his talents – paint and be acknowledged for his gift. Another demands freedom of thought. A woman is embarrassed by her inappropriate clothing and refuses to stay. Another tries to tempt the angels and flounces away in frustration when they fail to gaze at her with lust. Lewis examines parental love, a great deal of fear, and the concept of pity. It’s magnificent, honestly. Such a good book.

But there’s one character - a ghost who came from Hell - that stays with me. I got the feeling he was sick – his spirit was oily rather than purely translucent or vaguely smoky. And he was scolding the lizard on his shoulder as it spoke to him. When his angel approached, the man apologized. Told the angel he was terribly sorry for he knew this was inappropriate. The lizard wouldn’t let him come alone, but now that he was there, the animal refused to stay silent. So he’d have to leave.

The angel asks if the ghost if he’d like the lizard silenced, and the man accepts quickly until the spirit shares his plan to kill the lizard. The man shared my concern – the lizard appeared to be part of him, and though it was clearly making him ill, killing the creature seemed overly harsh. So the man backs away – he wants to wait until later, see his doctor back in the grey town and if it appears necessary to kill the lizard, he will return. The man never rules out the possibility – he simply isn’t ready yet. The angel insists he must decide now – that the lizard is bad for the man, and must be killed.

“May I kill it?” He asks multiple times, and I read quickly, both terrified and fascinated. The man is similarly frightened and the lizard encourages this fear, saying that the angel doesn’t understand, that the man needs him, acknowledges he’s gone too far in the past – encouraged bad behavior and pushed too hard for certain decisions, but he’ll stay quieter, be better. Killing him is unnecessary and scary and painful.

But at the angel’s insistence – his continued requests of “May I kill it?” – the man finally accepts – saying that dying is preferable to living with the creature on his shoulder. So the spirit reaches out his fiery hands and kills the lizard. It seems to cause the man excruciating pain, but then something spectacular happens. Amidst bright light, a spirit emerges from where the ghost had fallen in agony. He is vivid and beautiful and the narrator is distracted when the lizard appears to struggle as well. After his death, the reptile becomes a gorgeous stallion and the man – a shining being that emerged from an oily ghost – is able to ride the horse up the mountain toward where God lives.

It’s a moment of exquisite triumph and joy. I was breathless and brushed away tears – so moved by the mercy of the angel in helping the ghost, the terrified bravery of the man to lose part of himself because it was bad for him, and the incredible reward he received for his eventual willingness to accept help, to face pain, to achieve growth at terrible expense then to emerge as something incredible.

An analogy
Have you seen toddlers throw tantrums? When presented with a refusal to obey with their childish whims, they often lose it. Shrieking cries, faces wet with tears, stamping feet, clenched fists. The frustration and injustice is just so overwhelming that the little guys can’t keep it together. It can be entertaining or irritating or befuddling to watch. Sometimes I understand – I too have wanted a stuffed animal and been crushed with disappointment when denied. And sometimes I frown in line at the grocery store. It’s gum, kid. Honestly – find some perspective. Regardless, the pain is genuine and the desire that this display of angst will somehow turn the tides so their will is obeyed is intense. I like intensity.

I’m reminded as I write this in fits of energy, then frown when it doesn’t make much sense, of the little ones who just go limp. Faced with going to the doctor or leaving the playground, they fall to the ground and refuse to aid any movement. It seems embarrassing to pick up the dead weight of their tiny bodies – to forcibly move them to where they need to go. But as parents – or even as adults in general (since I’m not a parent) – we’re responsible for the tiny creatures. It’s an awesome job – to protect them as they learn, to attempt to teach while relegated to watching them make some mistakes on their own. Sometimes the most effective teaching mechanism is pain.

I’ve been told – when asked for criticism – that I tend toward being more than a bit naïve. So my comparison of my current state to that of a toddler isn’t meant to be dismissive of all I know or have accomplished. Children can be astonishingly smart and capable and wise. They approach some moments of life with such great hope, optimism and love that I’m awed by some of them. But they have a great deal to learn – their abilities to trust might be weakened, they might not be as open to love, the naïve trust that people should play nicely is replaced by the knowledge that cheating, lying and stealing often pay off. You can take advantage and get ahead. Or at least it seems so.

So when you teach children – or as I’m attempting to remind myself – to be good, and then to worry about success, there comes a point where you can’t just pick them up and tote them around. So you turn to reason – telling stories, imparting rules, setting consequences, introducing them to people and concepts so that they participate in making the world better.

I started with the lesson – I certainly can’t illustrate it better than Lewis, so I began with the lizard, stallion, ghost and angel. But some concepts can’t be embraced without personal experience. So now I have to confess and explain mine.

But I want that!
I have more blessings than I can mention. Well, I could mention them, but I don’t. Instead I focus on what I’m missing. Ignore all the toys and games and love in my room at home to fixate on that little stuffed animal at the store that I simply must obtain.

At any cost.

I have a desperate desire to love and be loved. To feel the warmth of someone as he sits next to me. To glow because someone might be thinking of me at this very moment. Those are natural feelings – to care for someone and basking in the comfort that he returned my admiration. Feeling safe, beautiful, important. Loved. That’s good – those things are all good.

But in the moment they became overwhelming – that my grip on them carried me farther from God – I believe they made my soul oily. So why take love – of all emotions with which to sin – and soil it? Make it ugly and inappropriate?

I don’t think God has a man in mind for me.

“Why not?” Mom asked gently as we drove home from the store one night. She understood about the lizard – the representation of sin that comes from inside me. She looked at me – very concerned – when I admitted I’d knowingly and egregiously sinned. I loved God – she’s seen the strength of that devotion and is shocked that anything could overcome it. Dismayed that I allowed this to happen. As am I. But it did.

“I’m not sure.” I answered. “It’s just a feeling. He loves me – I know that. And if I’m not supposed to be married, then it’s the right thing. If I were to get married, I might be unhappy or might love this man more than I love myself or God or anything good. So I understand – on some level – that I should rejoice in God’s love, feel grateful that I haven’t stepped too far off His path to return to it. But I’m sad – I want to be loved, to live with someone, sleep with him, have children, share myself and accept him. I think I’d be good at it. But it has to come with God’s blessing for it to be right. I think I know that.”

But it fails to make me happy. I’m moved by the thought that God understands the core desire that caused the lizard. That I chose a poor representation of love – a red lizard with beady eyes and a twitchy tail – over what is possible – a gleaming horse that eclipses the lizard in beauty, size and function. But if I’m a toddler in the store and see this exquisite toy, I can understand if it’s too expensive. That it is very nice, but it’s not for me. So my feeling is that I should pick something more obtainable and fixate on that.

And that’s what I did. In a moment that will be confessed momentarily.

A request refused
I heard a sermon in the early Spring. I enjoyed it, but I basically put my hands over my ears, scrunched my eyes closed and said “la, la, la!” so the message couldn’t take hold. But it stuck – I always knew it would.

“There are some questions I hate to hear.” My pastor said. “And the main one regards fasting. Whenever I make a doctor appointment and demand the earliest time slot available so I can go the least amount of time possible while fasting, they ask why a preacher can’t go without food more gracefully. And I shrug and give some excuse and keep whining until they give me a 7AM appointment. Because I love to eat! I can’t stand being hungry!”

He had decided that fasting was a good way to retain focus on God by removing some of his earthly focus on food. So he decided to practice before church that morning. He ate dinner on Saturday evening, had 3 servings of dessert to tide him over, then decided he’d have a huge brunch after the 10AM service ended.

“I couldn’t even last until 8:00.” He reported sheepishly. “I was getting ready to come in to greet the early congregation, and had about 2 minutes to spare. I used those minutes to raid the youth group snack closet.

“I found a can of peaches – one of those little pop-top snack tins. I didn’t even waste time looking for a spoon. I just dumped the peaches in my mouth and decided if I dripped on my shirt, my robes would cover it up while I was preaching. Those peaches were amazing. I can’t remember enjoying food more in recent memory – a cheap little can of peaches gave me an incredible amount of pleasure.

“But as I stood there, wiping juice off my chin, I thought about how wonderful it would be if I could hunger like that for God. Be desperate and giddy to be in His presence. Wait impatiently until I could pray. Look eagerly for a break at work so I could read my Bible. Wouldn’t it be amazing if we could take the passion for the worldly things we enjoy – sports, television, friends, family, food – and put that energy toward God instead?”

So he encouraged us to do that. Spoke with passion and enthusiasm and urged us to think of one thing that brought us the most joy – that we were eager for and happy in – and to take a break from it. Just a small break, he said, telling us not to panic. We could still enjoy our favorite thing. But imagine what you could learn and gain if that energy went toward listening to God, loving our neighbors, learning His word, being with Him rather than focused on the world.

I didn’t obey. I understood the message for my little email relationship was very, very good at that point – God clearly said to stop with the online activity for a little while. Take a break from the email which I loved so much. Stop with the daily blogging that takes so much time and attention. Ignore site statistics and avoid reading comments. The eagerness with which I approached people online – spent time reading and writing and thinking, falling in love – should go toward God. Ask His guidance. Try to follow His plan.

My experience is that if I have something that God doesn’t like, He will eventually take it away. So in those moments when I decided to willfully disregard the warning, I knew my attention should be directed elsewhere. When faced with God’s first request to kill the tiny lizard He could see growing in strength, I knowingly chose present pleasure over eternal peace. Waved my hand at God and rested securely in the knowledge that I could eventually be forgiven if I were wrong. But if I could have a relationship, I wanted it – much, much more than I wanted to be right with God.

I didn’t share those thoughts with anyone – friends, family, or the man with whom I was falling in love. I didn’t want to be saved and I was afraid that someone in my life – given the truth of my thoughts – would insist upon their further consideration. But I wanted to love. So the lizard grew. And it made me very, very sick.

I’m not sure the lizard is dead, to be honest. Wounded, certainly, but perhaps still clinging to the control it held over me. And that lizard – even when directed at the best of men who could love me in a wonderful way – is bad. It’s inherently bad, I think. It indicates my lack of trust in God to know what’s best for me – to give what I need and withhold that which will harm me.

I want to be clear here. The lizard was born and started to thrive before anything went badly with Peter. This has absolutely nothing to do with him and everything to do with me and choices I made. I believe that given anyone in the same circumstances, I would have made the same choice. The problem was not that I picked the wrong guy. The error was that I didn’t trust God.

And it’s not the first time.

What about Grandpa?
I received a small booklet my freshman year in college. I believe it was from Campus Crusade for Christ, though I could be mistaken. There was a picture – poorly drawn in black ink on white paper – of 2 scenarios. There was a throne at the center, and 2 figures. One represented me, the other Christ. Scenario 1 had me on the throne and Christ somewhere near the bottom corner of the image. Scenario 2 placed Christ on the throne and me fluttering happily by His side. I rather liked scenario 2, so I decided to take the meeting they offered.

I sat on a sofa in a dim room in the student center. We talked about God and giving over to His will and trusting Him. Then my grandparents came up, though I can’t recall if it was at my urging or theirs. Grandpa didn’t go to church, and I ended up asking if he could go to Heaven anyway.

“He could. If he accepted Christ as his personal savior and knew that his sins were forgiven because that price had been paid for him.”

“And if he didn’t accept that?” I asked, narrowing my eyes in warning and watching the woman shake her head sadly.

“That’s the only way to get there.” She said softly.

So I didn’t return – it was too absolute for me. I wanted to learn and ask questions and cling to the comfort that was offered by believing my loved ones were in a better place. It took me a long time to wrap my mind around the idea of Heaven – who gets in, who might be left out. It eventually came down to trust for me. I believe that God is a benevolent being. His love for me has been proven countless times and I feel him as a peaceful, hopeful presence. Though I understand He is capable of terrible anger and absolute power, I believe He badly wants us to come to Him.

So if I wanted Grandpa in Heaven, God must want him there so very much more. God knew every second of Grandpa’s existence. Must have tried many times to guide him in the right direction, allow him opportunity for love, happiness and purpose. If anyone could get Grandpa to Heaven, it was God. And I trusted that He tried. That if the right thing was for Grandpa to be in Heaven, that God would get him there. And I relaxed. I wanted to go to Heaven – I wouldn’t worry about who else was there. God could deal with them. I’d just try to focus on me.

But here's the tantrum part
I struggle mightily with giving over control. I beg for help when I need it, but then start to feel better and snatch my life away from God, huddle around it protectively, start thinking and planning and excluding Him.

There are countless decisions – moments where I should pause to pray, consider my motivations, think about consequences – that occur every day. I fully expect that I’ll mess many of them up. In my experience, the meager prayers and attention I offer God are enough to give him a bit of my consciousness so that I understand when He yanks me back. When the misery without Him becomes too much. When I’m left weeping and trembling and begging for Him to please kill it – to take whatever is causing me such pain, to forgive that I not only carried the lizard around, but that I saw it, chased it, captured it, and convinced it to stay. Fed it, listened to it, and allowed it to infect the way I think and act and live.

It’s scary. To look at parts of myself – the lizards on my shoulders – and understand they are damaging my soul. On my journey – for some reason - I don’t think I get the horse, and a lizard seemed better than nothing. What toddler wants to leave the store with nothing? I think God wants the horse for me though it may not be in the form I want – a man who could pair with me for my time here – but it will be in the form I need. But to be open to that horse, I need to allow the lizard to die. And I think I’m trying to keep it alive, nurse it back to health. Because it fits in my little brain. I understand what it looks like and how it speaks and how it feels to have moments of happiness surrounded by a life of sadness. Hope that eventually dims in the surrounding darkness. Because the lizard only takes – makes me sick and sad and turns me into someone I don’t recognize. Yet I stamp my foot and cling because he’s my lizard!

I don’t want to meet someone at church – those men tend to be too good. I don’t find them complicated or fascinating. Their impression is more respectful and kind than confident and sexy, and I’m drawn to the latter. I crave the thrilling flirtations, the nudges into sex – mental and physical, the dark shiver when I look at a man and realize he might be able to push me farther than I knew I could go. I’m trying to realize that those desires aren’t inherently lizard-like either. There can be passion and affection mixed with love and obedience to God. I don’t think faith has to be boring. In fact, I’m doing it wrong if it fails to excite me on any real level. I personally love God very much – want to do what’s right in His eyes. I simultaneously have more than a passing interest in sex, secular interests, and sarcastic humor. It’s not at all out of the realm of possibilities that there are men who are completely compelling who have focused on their faiths. Pushed other qualities aside – allowed certain lizards to be killed – to make room for the horses that replace them.

The horse and lizard can’t exist simultaneously. They come from the same desire – the same internal yearnings – and represent those feelings. It’s the dichotomy of my choices – when I screw up and find myself with a lizard, do I stick with the comfort of the familiar – I know how the lizard speaks and he’s not all that heavy to carry around? He’s part of me – I created him. And it will certainly hurt to have him killed. But his very existence prevents the possibility of something better. So faith must get me past the fear – the knowledge that God loved me in the past and will continue to do so. The horse will emerge out of the pain and trust from losing the lizard. I believe this to be true.

His rules are not about earning a place in Heaven or pleasing Him enough to justify His love and hope for me. He is rather an extremely loving parent. Seeking to carry me at times – forcibly moving me to where I need to go. Other times he sends people to give gentle warnings, to support me when I’m low, to offer rebukes when I’m wrong. When I ignore His warnings, I do so at my own peril. I waste time – which is finite – and fail to move toward the greatness I could obtain while I cling to the darkness I create on my own. I’m afraid of change – I really don’t want to give up some of those lizards – but I’m tremendously grateful that I might see them for what they are. His rules are built so I can be successful here - happy, full of purpose and love. I very much want to try to follow them.

In doing so, the hope is that I become more of an adult. And a good adult at that.